


The Musketeers, Season 4

by Zedrobber



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Blood, Do Not Spoil Yourself, F/M, Gen, I Mean Massive, Jolly Musketeer Adventure, Massive Season 3 Spoilers, Outdated language re: trans character, Plot, Sort of implied not implied Aramis/Porthos, cissexist language in chapter 5, dub con potentially, please, violence and some injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 99,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6817744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Were you dissatisfied with season 3 of BBC's The Musketeers? I was, so here's Season 4.<br/>SPOILERS<br/>Notes before we begin, SEASON 3 spoilers in the fic notes at beginning of chapter 1, as well as a summary of the whole of this fic season.<br/>This fic follows after the events of season 3 of BBCs The Musketeers and the plot will involve some actual historical events. Please be aware I will be manipulating these and the people involved - partially due to the show's liberties with them in putting characters in place of people, partially to make it actually interesting to read! All inaccuracies are my own fault, and most of them might even be deliberate :P <strong>Also note I am only using SERIES canon, NOT the book(s).</strong></p><p>Do not read unless you wish to be spoiled!<br/>This fic will be attempting to keep to roughly the maturity level of the show, but may have more explicit sexual scenes and more language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. EPISODE ONE: "AND ONE FOR ALL."

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILER WARNING FOR SEASON 3 below:**
> 
> This fic does not have a continued relationship between Athos and Sylvie.
> 
>  **SEASON 4 SUMMARY:**  
>   
>  With the Musketeers scattered in all directions, d'Artagnan has been rebuilding the garrison and returning to work as Captain of the regiment. However, low on soldiers and with the war on Spain still raging, there are not enough men to defend Paris when a seemingly normal tax proposal goes stunningly awry, Cardinal Mazarin and the Prince of Condé at the heart of a series of insurrections and riots through Paris and surrounding provinces. With the Queen and the young King in danger and the Musketeers ill-prepared, d'Artagnan has to act quickly and bring his friends back together to deal with the mess and uncover who it is who is pitting the nobles against the Royal Court for a total reform of government.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Please note that I will be taking historical liberties; in general, most of this stuff happened, but various people and characters are going to be moved around as needed to accommodate the liberties the show has already taken & to integrate characters who were not actually there in real terms.**  
> 

 

 

  **EPISODE ONE: "AND ONE FOR ALL"**

 

 

**GARRISON**

Work on the garrison had been slow; d’Artagnan had rallied all the forces he could possibly muster, but with the loss of so many people in the explosion, numbers were painfully thin, morale at an all-time low. A few ex- Red Guards had wandered in eventually, at a loss what to do now that they were no longer soldiers, and d’Artagnan had welcomed them as new recruits- with a solemn vow that if they betrayed him or the crown, they would be executed without hesitation. But they, and the few others he had been able to gather so far, were making pitifully slow work of the rebuilding process; with neither the skill nor the numbers, he had been forced to employ professionals and further empty the dwindling vault of the Musketeers.

 

It was almost worth it when he took his first steps into his new office, the wood still fragrant and the paint barely dry. Those first steps felt like the real beginning of his time as Captain of the Musketeers; having a place to call home was important, even if he knew Athos had been right- they were all the garrison, really, and home was inside their hearts.

 

Now the apartments for the Musketeers were almost complete, a new training yard being swept out and fitted, and Constance had managed to procure good, solid horses to start them off again. Even Elodie had pitched in, learning how to groom horses, clean tack, and oversee the stables. D’Artagnan was under no illusion that she would not fight to the death to defend the place and her child if need be, and thought of her as a cadet in spirit if nothing else. He knew Porthos would be proud when he returned.

 

He fingered the brim of his hat thoughtfully before taking it off, dropping it onto his desk carefully and turning his attention to the letter in his hand. It bore Aramis’ seal, the handwriting neat, looping and familiar. There was an ache in d’Artagnan’s stomach every time he had correspondence from one of his dearest friends; a bittersweet mixture of pleasure at the contact and sorrow at their parting. The garrison didn’t feel quite like home without them, and he often expected his office to be invaded by the three others, shouting and laughing and reckless. But his office remained silent, only entered by those who knocked respectfully- or Constance, who came in regardless of what he was doing and informed him of everything that he had done wrong that day. He smiled at the thought of her, glancing out of his window to see her speaking with Elodie in the yard.

He had ordered the apartments to be rebuilt with three extra in particular; one for Porthos, one for Aramis, and one for Athos, decorated in the style he remembered them enjoying. Of course, he didn’t expect them to stay there again, but it was a pleasant feeling to know they were welcomed and made him feel less apart from them all.

 

He broke the seal on the letter and read.

 

_My dear friend,_

_The Queen Regent intends on taking her son with Cardinal Mazarin to visit the Judges in Parlement next week as they negotiate a rather severe tax proposal. I fear all will not be well and would welcome a Musketeer guard with them when they go- can I count on it?_

_Aramis_

He read it again, frowning, and then shrugged. Of course Aramis would want the protection for his son. He couldn’t see how a _tax proposal_ would cause civil unrest, but nevertheless, he would reply and reassure his friend of their presence. As Minister, Aramis seemed to be doing rather well; revelling in the political side of things, and close to his son, he was a valuable asset to France and d’Artagnan reminded himself of that when he missed his advice and his easy smile.

 

“D’Artagnan, Elodie tells me that one of the horses is lame,” Constance said from the doorway, interrupting his thoughts. “Do we have the money to send for someone, or should I tell her to rest him and see how he is in a few days?” Her tone was brisk, business-like, but her smile was warm and d’Artagnan found himself smiling back. Her clothing had slowly become more Musketeer-like over the months she had been working here; now she was wearing a brown leather cloak over her dark blue dress and had an ornamental armour piece on her shoulder intended to mimic the Musketeer uniform. He found it both endearing and brilliant; she was as much a Musketeer as any of them, and if she wanted to show as much, he approved.

“Rest him,” he sighed with a glance back outside to the stables. “We need everything for the building work.”

Constance looked at him properly while he was distracted, noting that although he seemed tired, Captaincy suited him; his shoulders broader, his stance more confident than it had been even a few years ago. He seemed to have slipped into the role as easily as an old pair of boots, and had an air of quiet command about him that she often found rather distracting. He didn’t look like the silly boy who had kissed her while on the run anymore, but a man- with a few scars to prove it- but his grin was as disarming as it had ever been and his eyes were just as merry, most of the time.

She knew he thought of the others often, and in those moments his eyes would be distant and he wouldn’t hear anything she said- though she swore aloud to him that it was a deliberate move to avoid her scolding.

 

Constance nodded, gave him a quick kiss, and left him to it, noting the letter in his hand. Elodie was waiting and she gave her the instructions for the horse, a beautiful black gelding who stamped and nudged her with his great, shining head.

Elodie missed Porthos, it was plain to see; though she was cheerful and efficient, and took care of her daughter with obvious tenderness and an abundance of love, she glanced often at the entrance to the garrison and asked for news from the front several times a week. Constance did her best to keep her spirits up but knew that she couldn’t understand; not when her husband was always right there with her for comfort.

 

\--

 

**LOUVRE**

“Your Majesty,” Aramis said, bowing and trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “With all due respect, do you think it wise to take your son with you? Surely this tax proposal of Cardinal Mazarin won’t be popular, and to put him in the middle of it –“

“He is your king, Aramis,” she reminded him, a steely look in her eyes that he recognised all too well. “Your advice is not needed. He must learn how to conduct himself.”

He bit his lip and nodded, bowing again as she swept past him. He noticed the look she gave him on the way past; a softer, kinder look, asking him to understand. Mazarin followed her, as always; he was at her side in everything, these days, and it troubled Aramis even though he was a perfectly trustworthy man; Aramis always seemed to be interrupting them and it niggled at him. The Prince of Condé also went with her, speaking closely into her ear; a decorated General, he had been called back by the Queen Regent for additional support. Aramis did not like him one bit, his air arrogant and abrasive, his manner calculating and cold. He passed Aramis with the gaze of a hawk seeing a particularly juicy rat, looking down his pointed nose at him. It made Aramis shudder internally, reminding him uncomfortably of the way Rochefort had looked at those he deemed dispensable. Still, Anne trusted the Prince, and Aramis had to remind himself that although his place was to advise, it was not to automatically distrust everyone in the Queen’s immediate vicinity; hard, when it was _his_ son he was watching over, and quite possibly the love of his life he was advising, but it had to be done. He didn’t regret taking the position- far from it- but he did miss his old life, remembering it fondly as less complicated than he suspected it had been. He missed the bustle and the excitement, the smell of leather and horses, the friendly banter and bickering; it had felt like family, and here, he felt like an outsider.

Left alone, he went to his office and sat at his desk with a weary sigh. It would be nice to see d’Artagnan again, even in a professional capacity. He recalled with a twinge of guilt that he had meant to stop in at the garrison and perhaps even lend a hand, and had not been able to- the pile of paperwork on his desk was a constant chore. _I thought this would be easier than soldiering_ , he thought wryly.

 

\---

 

**OUTSIDE ROUEN**

It had seemed like a dream for the few months after they’d left Paris; they found a small apartment in a village just outside Rouen they could rent and settled into what he presumed should have been domestic bliss.

It was good, at first; he couldn’t deny that, the novelty of relaxation and the new surroundings a pleasure for a while. He got on well with Sylvie, slipping into an easy routine which was pleasant but not exciting.  Sylvie was sweet; nervous and elated about the baby, and Athos should have been as well. A part of him was; he had wondered what it would be like to be a father, but circumstances hadn’t allowed for it.

But inside him was a kernel of dread that this was _it_ , that everything else in his life had stopped and that there was something he had to do, business to finish, before he should think about retiring from everything he had known. He pushed it away, and he focused on being present, for once, and not far off in his past- and he had thought he could make it work; at first, at least.

He took various jobs, unable to settle to anything unless it was hard and physical and demanding, and came home exhausted each night, barely able to keep himself awake long enough to hear Sylvie tell him what she had done. She had set up a school system for the local poor children and any adult who wanted to learn as well- he was proud beyond measure at how quickly she had achieved her aim. Not that he was surprised, of course; Sylvie was determined and clever and was soon teaching a class of twenty children or more and half that again in adults.

She was doing well while he languished, feeling out of sorts and irritable with himself though he didn’t know why. He was drinking again, a sure sign of _something_ being wrong, except-

 

Except he _did_ know why, and that why was _her._ He still had that glove, tucked away in his things, and whenever he caught a glimpse of it the rush of guilt and shame and love and anger crashed over him as though it had been yesterday and not months since he last saw her. And he was guilty about that, too; he had kissed her like he had been drowning, needing her in a vicious, primal way he just didn’t need Sylvie and never could. That had been part of why he had liked Sylvie in the first place; she was a soothing balm to his fury and passion, independent and not clingy, and he loved her for it without understanding it or himself.

He was a bad liar, except when it came to his own heart.

He’d never told Sylvie about that last kiss, not wanting to bring up the past or have her question him about it- because she would, she was too curious not to want to know, and what right would he have to lie to her about it anyway- so instead, he kept the glove like a dirty secret, holding onto her in his heart and hating himself for doing it. He wondered what she was doing, where she was, if she was safe- all of the things he had no right to wonder. And Sylvie was _good_ to him, and didn’t ask where he went in his head some days or why when it was particularly bad he went to the inn and got so drunk he could barely see.

 

Their daughter arriving distracted Athos for a while- she was perfect and beautiful and Sylvie doted on her, her face lit up with joy whenever she picked her up. Athos tried to join in that joy; he loved his child, that was certain, and he would protect her until his last breath- but the connection he had been told he would have just never materialised, something else for him to feel guilty about. He wondered if he was fit to be a father when he hadn’t even been fit to be a Captain, and no amount of reassurances from Sylvie could stop that worry. They named her Isabelle- or rather, Sylvie did with Athos’ approval.

 

-

 

“What’s this?”

He glanced up from where he was standing, staring down at his daughter who was napping fretfully. Sylvie was holding up the glove, her head tilted like a bird. She didn’t yet look concerned, just curious, and Athos debated lying for a long moment, his heart in his mouth.

“It…belongs to a woman.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was yours,” she said lightly, smiling. “Who?”

“Someone I knew,” he replied vaguely. “Before I met you.”

“A girl you courted?”

“You could say that.” His lips twisted into a half smile, wry and bitter.

“Did you love her?” She was smoothing the glove between her fingers and he felt a sudden urge to snatch it from her that he ignored with difficulty.

“Yes.”

“What was she like?” Now she looked more than curious, her dark eyes narrowing a fraction in the way Athos knew meant a storm was brewing.

“She – had dark hair, and green eyes-“

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

There was a silence for a moment while he groped for words that wouldn’t hurt Sylvie. He had no desire to do that. He took a step towards her but she held her ground, staring at him. He huffed out a short breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair, stopping a few paces away. The glove was held between them, neither one wanting to snatch it away. He looked at it, white and soft; still remembered how it had smelled, like grass and jasmine, despite that scent having long been worn off.

Eventually, he began. “She was- is, I suppose- my wife.”

“Your wife.” The hand holding the glove trembled but that was all.

“Yes.” He plunged on. “I had thought her dead for some years, but she has a way of appearing when you least expect. I believe you met her-”

Sudden realisation dawned on Sylvie’s face. “That woman who came to the printing press-“

He nodded miserably, hating how the image of her face in his mind came unbidden and beautiful. “She was how I knew to find you when they tried to- punish you for those pamphlets.”

“Your wife.”

“Yes.” He risked a glance to her face and immediately dropped his gaze again.

“What happened?”

 _Oh, god._ “It ended… abruptly. Badly.”

That wasn’t enough for her, though; he could see it in the tension of her arms even without looking into her eyes. He took a breath. “I killed her.”

The step back Sylvie took, the widening of her eyes and the quick intake of breath, hurt Athos without surprising him. He shook his head. “No. She killed my brother- she lied about who she was- I had to, it was my duty-“

“Your duty? You said you loved her.”

“I do- I _did_ -“

But the damage was done, and Sylvie’s face went blank and closed off. “I see.” She dropped the glove at his feet, and brushed past him to pick up Isabelle, carrying her into the bedroom and making soft, comforting noises to her as she fretted.

 

Athos needed a drink. He rubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, thinking about the days he had spent in various inns, so drunk he needed Porthos to carry him home at the end of the night. He had been wretched then, and he was wretched now; the difference was he had no friends here and a woman he desperately didn’t want to lie to any more.

And unfinished business that clearly wasn’t going to let him be.

 

\---

 

**GARRISON**

“Constance!” d’Artagnan hollered, re-reading the letter in his hand. He rushed to the door, leaning over the rails to the yard below and waving the letter. “You’ll never guess.”

Constance came rushing from the storeroom, drying her hands. “What is it? What’s happened?” She squinted up at him, looking concerned, but he just laughed and waved the letter again.

“Porthos is coming home!”

“Elodie! Porthos is coming home!” Constance shouted in the direction of the stables. Elodie came out, blinking in the sunlight, and looked at d’Artagnan for confirmation. He nodded, trotting down the stairs and handing her the letter. “He’s wounded, but he’s perfectly all right,” he added. “Brujon is coming back with him. They should be here any day.”

Elodie clutched the letter to her heart, crying silently and with dignity. It occurred to d’Artagnan that she might not be able to read, but the letter seemed to give her comfort nonetheless. He grinned at them both. “He’s coming home.” A small part of the ache in his chest felt relieved, like pressure had been released. Constance hugged him, sniffing back tears of her own. It was strange, she thought, how she had come to see these grown men, rough and vicious and prickly, as her children in an odd way, had cleaned their wounds and tended to their melancholy. She could see now why Treville had always felt himself a father to them all. He had been the only father some of the Musketeers could remember.

“I need to tell Aramis.” He kissed Constance on the forehead and bounded back up to his office, his step light and easy. Constance turned and held Elodie to her for a moment, smiling.

 

\---

 

**LOUVRE**

“If you think it wise, Cardinal,” Anne said softly.

“I see no other way of funding our armies, Your Majesty,” Mazarin replied with a self-deprecating shrug. “If they do not accept this proposal, I fear our vaults will not stand for another few years of these wars. With the money, we can weaken Spain much more efficiently.”

“But the people pay so many taxes already; Richelieu raised taxes several times and they surely will not stand for more-“

“I’m afraid it is inevitable, Your Majesty. If I can convince the Judges that it is in their best interests to pass the proposal, I’m sure we can negotiate a deal which will benefit France greatly.”

Anne frowned, displeased. She did not like the thought of over burdening her people with yet more  expenses, but it was true that the toll of war was a high one on their reserves. She nodded.

“And you will support us?” she asked, turning to the Prince of Condé. He hesitated, his long face as still as though he were carved from marble.

“You are of royal blood,” she reminded him archly.

“Very well,” he assented, shifting his gaze between her and Mazarin. “I see that this is why you summoned me back to court, your Majesty. I had hoped for something a little more to my taste.”

“I assure you, France requires your service,” she snapped. “And so does your King.”

He bowed low, silently, and said no more.

 

Aramis coughed and bowed as he entered the room, aware he seemed to have disturbed yet another private meeting. Mazarin took a step away from the Queen. Condé scowled at him.

“Your Majesty.”

“Minister,” Anne said warmly. “What is it?”

“Captain d’Artagnan has assured me that a full Musketeer Guard will accompany you to the Parlement next week, as will I, of course.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I believe it is a good precaution, Your Majesty.”

“Very well.” Anne seemed distracted, her eyes flicking between Aramis and the others rapidly. “I do think that all of this fuss is rather too much,” she said finally. “Go on. I want to see my son.”

Bowing again, they left, Aramis veering off towards his office. On the way, he caught a glimpse of the Prince of Condé striding through a corridor that was mostly unused, seemingly with great purpose. He frowned to himself and resolved to keep a better eye on the Prince in future.

 

\---

 

**GARRISON**

Porthos arrived without pomp or ceremony. One morning almost a week later, d’Artagnan opened the office door to find him stood there, leaning heavily on the wall but smiling, Brujon beside him.

“Porthos-“ d’Artagnan was already hugging him before he’d even finished, Porthos wincing but hugging back as best he could.

“It’s good to see you, Porthos. You too, Brujon,” he added to the young Musketeer, who had broadened quite considerably in the months he’d been on the frontlines. His hair was longer too, and wavy, and he’d also gained a neat little scar on his chin that enhanced his looks rather than spoiling them; d’Artagnan suspected he would be fighting off potential lovers now. But Porthos; Porthos looked the same as ever, solid and steady like a rock that had stood for thousands of years and would continue to do so long after everyone else was gone.

Well, almost the same. His eyes had lost some of the devil-may-care gleam d’Artagnan remembered, and there was a fresh scar on his neck. But he was as loud as ever, his laugh infectious and raucous as he told d’Artagnan tales of his exploits and how he’d given the man who had wounded him several new holes in his chest. D’Artagnan listened warmly, perched on the edge of his desk and basking in the easy friendship that had returned without awkwardness.

“Have you seen Elodie?” d’Artagnan asked eventually, flushing with shame that he hadn’t asked sooner.

“Of course I have,” Porthos said with an amused smile. “You think I’d come all the way up those stairs to you, in this condition, without seeing my wife first? She’d kill me.” He grew serious for a moment. “She tells me you’ve been good to her, d’Artagnan. Thank you. You and Constance.”

“She’s family,” he shrugged. “She belongs here.”

Porthos nodded silently and clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder. “Seems we’re missing a few of our family members, eh?” he said after a moment. “Heard anything from Athos?”

“Not for a few months,” d’Artagnan sighed. “He told me he’d found somewhere to live, and then wrote to me when his daughter was born; but- his letters don’t sound right, Porthos. They sound like he used to, before, you know?”

Porthos grunted in acknowledgment, looking troubled. “Well, you know what he’s like. Aramis?”

“He’s doing fine- still at the Louvre. Enjoying the endless parties, no doubt.”

“It’s not right to be all scattered around like this,” Porthos said shortly, saying in one sentence what d’Artagnan had been feeling for months. “We should be together. All of us.” He scowled and folded his arms, grunting in pain as he aggravated the injury to his shoulder and chest.

“Is it bad?”

“I’ve had worse,” Porthos said with a dismissive shrug. “Just don’t let Aramis at it or he’ll have me unconscious while he pokes at it.” His grin was fond, and d’Artagnan returned it easily.

“Your rooms are where they used to be, if you’re staying here,” he said, trying to sound casual but watching Porthos under his eyebrows for a reaction.

“Don’t know where you thought I was going to stay,” he replied, leaning forward to grab d’Artagnan on the back of the neck and pressing their foreheads together for a moment. “It’s good to be home.”

 

\---

 

**JUDGES DE PARLEMENT**

“I still think this is a little much for a simple tax proposal,” Anne said with a sigh, sweeping her gaze across the guard. “If you feel it necessary, however-“

Aramis gave a short bow. “I believe it prudent, Your Majesty.” She dismissed him to speak to her son, and Aramis backed off, catching a glimpse of Porthos and d’Artagnan out of the corner of his eye and trotting over to them. He ignored the way Mazarin sidled back into her presence and the haughty glance of Condé, opening his arms wide and grinning at Porthos as he approached.

“You’re alive!” he said, sounding disappointed. “Can’t seem to shake you, can I?” Porthos gave him a crushing hug and slapped him on the back with a chuckle.

“Believe me, I tried to die but they just couldn’t stab me properly. Trust the Spanish to get it wrong.”

Aramis laughed, shaking his head and turning to d’Artagnan. “Good to see you, my friend. Captain.”

D’Artagnan nodded, clapping Aramis on the shoulder. “And you. I think your old uniform suited you better, though.”

“What can I say, I’ve always been fashion forward.” Aramis winked at him and then glanced at the Musketeer guard, mostly cadets and newly-commissioned soldiers. He nodded to Brujon and then sighed, shortly.

“No Athos?”

“We haven’t heard from him for months,” d’Artagnan said. “We could use him here, really. There aren’t enough of us to do anything if something happens.”

“He’ll be happily settled down somewhere I imagine.”

Porthos grunted and looked away, shuffling his feet. “Probably.”

“Let’s do this,” d’Artagnan said as the party began to move, everyone in their carriages. They swung up onto their horses, including Aramis who had managed to convince the Queen that he would be of more use with the Musketeers, and set off at a steady pace through the crowds.

 

**PARLEMENT**

“We refuse.”

Mazarin glanced at Queen Anne for a moment uneasily, Aramis and the Musketeers standing well back and at attention.

“I beg your pardon, but it is simply the only way-“

“We refuse this ridiculous proposal, Cardinal-“ the head of the judicial officers stood, jabbing a finger at Mazarin and enunciating clearly. “-And what’s more, we _condemn_ the Royal Court for this- this insanity- the latest in a long line of _proposals_ and _edicts_ and other money-grabbing schemes that you seem to require on a weekly basis-“

“I must insist that you take a moment to reconsider your-“

“We have considered everything! We will not be bullied into yet another one of your taxes- for the good of France, you say, as though you believe it. Well, we refuse and we _will_ demand reform. The Crown has done enough damage in recent years. It is time for you all to leave.”

The Musketeers took a step forward at the insult to their Queen Regent and King; Anne shook her head minutely and continued to look steadily at the gathered judicial officers.

“I have no doubt that with time to think this over, you will all agree that this is the correct action to take,” she said, her voice clear above the murmurs of the men before her. “We will allow some time for you to respond. After all,” she finished, “what you are suggesting as an alternative amounts to treason.”

She ushered her son before her, turning smartly and followed helplessly by the Cardinal, Condé, and the Musketeer guard, who didn’t remove their hands from their sword hilts until all were outside again and bundled into carriages.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Aramis breathed to d’Artagnan and Porthos.

“Indeed. You think they’ll do anything about it?”

“Who, the judges? They’d be mad to,” Aramis said, glancing back at the carriages and spurring on his horse a little. “Surely they’ll see reason.”

“Reason doesn’t seem to be widespread at the moment,” d’Artagnan frowned. “And we haven’t got enough soldiers to deal with it if they decide to do something stupid.”

 

\---

 

**GARRISON**

“There’s another letter from Aramis,” Constance said as she entered d’Artagnan’s office with breakfast. “And you haven’t eaten. Here.” She put down the tray on his desk and handed him the letter.

D’Artagnan flashed her a grateful smile, breaking the seal and reading quickly. His smile faded as quickly as it had arrived. “Get Porthos.”

 

He handed the letter to Porthos as soon as they arrived back, staring down at the plate of food untouched on the desk while he waited.

“You’re joking,” Porthos exploded finally, giving the letter to Constance. “You have to be.”

“I wish I was,” d’Artagnan almost groaned, rubbing his eyes. “It feels never ending, doesn’t it?”

 

_D’Artagnan, my friend_

_Serious news. The Chambre St- Louis has gathered without authority and is calling for constitutional reform- this could be trouble for Paris if not stopped. Cardinal Mazarin seems to be a target for their anger; no action required right now, but do you think you could manage to rustle up more recruits? I know it’s been hard, but I trust you. Mazarin intends to move against them soon._

_Aramis_

“So we need recruits,” Constance said at length. “From where, exactly?”

“The gutter,” d’Artagnan shrugged. “Where they’ve been kicked.”

“You can’t be suggesting we go out _looking_ for ex-Red Guards,” Porthos huffed. “Those treacherous _bastards_ -“

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan cautioned. “Some of the cadets we have right now are ex-Red Guard, and they have been loyal and brave.”

“S’not right.” But he shut his mouth with a curt nod, and d’Artagnan glanced at Constance. “Do you think you can help make pamphlets asking for recruits? Send them out to inns?”

“Of course,” Constance nodded briskly, looking thoughtful. “I might still be able to use some of the connections I made working for the Queen. I’ll get started. Eat your breakfast.” She gave him a stern look and left the office.

“What are we going to do?” Porthos asked when they were alone.

“Get Brujon, go out and see if you can drum us up some potential soldiers,” d’Artagnan said thoughtfully. “And I think I might need to send a letter to Athos.”

“You think he’ll come back?”

“We’ll need him,” he said simply. “He’s the best we’ve got, and-“

“Had.”

“- and if this goes badly, we’ll need as many experienced Musketeers as we can get. The King’s life might depend on the difference between a cadet and a Musketeer.”

Porthos set his jaw and breathed out hard, not making eye contact with d’Artagnan.

“What if he doesn’t come?”

“Then we’ll carry on without him.”

Porthos nodded and left; d’Artagnan could hear him hollering for the unfortunate Brujon outside, smiling despite himself.

 Sitting down, he picked up a piece of bread and chewed on it thoughtfully while deciding what to write.

 

\---

 

 

**OUTSIDE ROUEN**

“Drinking again?”

Athos didn’t reply, glancing up at Sylvie as she walked past with Isabelle in her arms and continuing to drink. The nightmares had started to return, dreams he had been plagued with for ten years now. Always the same dream; his wife on the end of a rope, choking and kicking, her eyes pleading with him to save her but unable to beg him for her life. And then it was him choking, his breath cut short, and he always woke gasping and sweating and crying, pretending that it was nothing to Sylvie and rolling out of bed for a drink, his hands shaking.

He’d thought they were done, those nightmares. They’d stopped somewhere between the crossroads and the war, but had crept back surreptitiously like tendrils of smoke into his mind, as though they had never truly gone.

“It’s not good for you, you know.”

He grunted in reply.

She took the bottle away from him, and he glared up at her angrily. “Give me that.”

“No. You’ve done nothing all morning but sulk and drink while I’ve been working.”

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists on the table, and sighed deeply. Her eyes were watchful, distrustful in a way they had been for weeks now. Athos knew it was his fault, and added it to the long list of things he hated about himself.

“I’m sorry,” he ground out eventually, disgusted with himself at the way the tension flowed out of her, her whole body softening to him again. “I got a letter.”

“From who?” she said it lightly, not looking at him, but he heard the silent accusation that had been between them since the glove incident.

“D’Artagnan.”

“Oh.” She smiled tightly and bounced Isabelle. “What did he say?”

“He says they need me in Paris.”

There. It was said, and now that it was out loud it seemed inevitable. He felt a rush of relief. But Sylvie frowned at him, looking like she hadn’t quite understood.

“Well. You’re not a Musketeer anymore.”

“I know.”

“You have a child.”

“I know.”

“You’re not thinking about going, are you?”

Athos said nothing, picking at the grain on the table with a blunt fingernail.

“You are?”

He grunted. “D’Artagnan said it might get serious.”

She made a disgusted noise. “It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it? They call and you go running off like a good dog.”

He glanced up at her. “They are my friends.”

“And what am I?”

“You know you mean a lot to me, Sylvie,” he said awkwardly. “You and Isabelle.”

She looked as if he had slapped her. “My God,” she said softly. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

“Who? Of course not-“

“Is she still in Paris?”

“I assume so, yes.“

“Will you see her?”

He didn’t answer, dropping his gaze to his hands. Sylvie swallowed, hard. “I see.”

“France needs me. My friends need me.”

“And she needs you, is that right?”

“Not everything is about _her,_ Sylvie-“ he said, frustrated with her and himself in equal measure. “-I’m a Musketeer, it’s my job.”

“It isn’t your job anymore, Athos!”

“It should be. I should be where I’m n-“ he stopped himself from finishing; _where I’m needed._

“If you go,” Sylvie said, watching as he stood up and shrugged on his cloak, “you won’t come back.”

“I will.” It felt like a half-truth at best.

She smiled, a sad smile, holding back tears forcefully through sheer will alone. Athos could see her hands trembling as she took in a hard, long breath. He wished he could say that it weakened his resolve; wished that he could be the kind of man to rush to her side and beg her forgiveness. He stood silently, his jaw set and his eyes downcast.

“No, you won’t.”

Athos nodded his head, half to himself, and without another word, he left the room.

 

\--

 

**GARRISON**

“That’s the lot of them,” Porthos said, ushering in the last stragglers with Brujon’s help. “There just aren’t enough of us to cover the ground needed to get many more.”

D’Artagnan patted his shoulder. “You’ve both done well. That’s, what- fifteen more recruits than we had last week? I’m sure Constance’s pamphlets will bring some in too, she’s gone with Elodie to hand them out. And Aramis,” he glanced to Aramis, who had finally managed to get a few hours to visit his friends and was leaning against the wall, resplendent in his Minister’s uniform and feeling utterly out of place in his old home. “Aramis has promised he will ask the Queen for any assistance she can give us. Until then, these will do perfectly well.”

Porthos looked less than enthusiastic. “Some of them are Red Guard.”

“ _Were_ , Porthos. If they’re loyal, they can be Spanish for all I care.”

“Steady on,” Porthos said, giving him an almost comical glare. D’Artagnan grinned and shook his head. “I’m joking.”

“That would be too far.”

Porthos huffed, looking annoyed for another moment, and then chuckled despite himself.

“Yes, we’d have to kill you, Captain,” Aramis chimed in with a roguish smile, pausing to throw his arm around Porthos in a belated greeting. Porthos leaned against him with a grin. “It’s good to see you both.”

“It’s been too long. You still look ridiculous in that outfit, Aramis. Especially here."

“It's only been a week, Porthos. Perhaps you should let me look at your wound? It seems to be affecting your memory,” Aramis said innocently. Porthos scowled at him. “Gerroff.”

“Come on, let’s get this lot settled in,” d’Artagnan sighed, giving them both a friendly push towards the training yard. “You do both have actual jobs, you know.”

“I don’t work here anymore!” Aramis protested with a laugh, following Porthos anyway.

“I’ll find you something to do,” Porthos threatened. “You can muck out the horses.” He turned to d’Artagnan, pausing.

“Heard anything from Athos?”

“He didn’t reply,” d’Artagnan shrugged, trying not to sound as wounded as he felt. “Not even a refusal.”

“Too good for us,” Porthos growled.

“Don’t be cruel, Porthos,” Aramis scolded him. “He’s probably just happy. He deserves that as much as any one of use does.”

 

“Who deserves what?”

 

They turned as one to see Athos riding into the training yard, looking exhausted and pale and covered in dust from the road. He pulled up his horse sharply and dismounted with a grunt.

“Athos!” d’Artagnan laughed, almost running to hug him. Athos gave him a tired half-smile and leaned into the hug, saying, “I hear you need someone who knows what they’re doing around here, hm?”

“I knew you’d be back,” Porthos said as he arrived at Athos’ side as well, followed by Aramis who smiled silently. Athos accepted their embraces with tolerant fondness before stepping back and looking at them all in turn. “You all look well. I see Paris is still standing.”

“You look like shit,” Porthos said, eyeing him.

“Thank you.” He breathed out heavily, looking around at the newly built garrison. “I need a drink.”

Aramis frowned and said nothing, shaking his head at Porthos to do the same. But d’Artagnan was oblivious. “So how is Sylvie? And your new daughter?”

Athos looked at him in silence for a long moment, his eyes unfocused and miserable, and then said, “They’re fine.”

He turned and went to sit at the bench in the yard, pulling a bottle over to himself and setting about finishing it without another word. Aramis, d’Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a look of sympathy and concern, and then went to sit with him, ordering more wine from a cadet.

“Well,” d’Artagnan said after a few minutes of silent drinking. “We’re all here again.”

“S’like I never left,” Porthos grumbled, shifting his injured arm.

“I do miss this place,” Aramis agreed. “Not you, Porthos, but the place.”

Athos looked up at them from under his eyebrows, filling his cup again.

“All for one?” d’Artagnan offered, raising his cup.

There was a moment where they all looked at each other, and then at Athos, who sighed and raised his cup as well. Everyone else followed suit, grinning.

“And one for all.”

 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

**I'm aiming to get a new episode up once a week, for ten episodes. Bear with me, though; I have a job as well! I do have an over-arching plot for the series.**

 

 

 

 

 


	2. EPISODE TWO: "BEYOND THE BARRICADES"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is episode two; all previous spoiler warnings apply.
> 
> Please note, especially beginning in this chapter, that I am definitely stretching historical fact to accommodate this plot- partially due to the show itself doing so previously, and partially to increase action/tension/plot things. All inaccuracies are duly noted and apologised for, history enthusiasts! As I said before also, I am purely working on SERIES canon, no book canon included deliberately as I haven't read it for about 15 years.
> 
> Anyone worried that the Milady/Athos hasn't started yet, I promise it gets going next week.   
> Thanks to everyone reading this so far. Please blame my partner for the episode title, it's her fault.

**EPISODE TWO: BEYOND THE BARRICADES**

 

 

 

LOUVRE

“Cardinal Mazarin is going to do _what?”_ Aramis all but gaped, his gaze flicking between the Queen Regent and the Cardinal. Condé stood beside them impassively, staring straight ahead.

“ _Your Queen_ ,” Anne said sternly, giving Aramis a warning look, “intends to arrest several key officers of Parlement. Cardinal Mazarin supports this.”

“But your Majesty-“

He had listened in silence while the situation had been outlined to him. Judicial officers from several regions had gathered in a Parlement without the authority of the Crown in response to Cardinal Mazarin’s taxation proposals. Demanding full reform, authority over taxes – and tax reductions- and pushing for control over appointments of state. It was a disaster, and one Aramis had not foreseen. But this seemed a little hasty, even to him.

“What they are demanding amounts to nothing less than treason, Aramis. They are demanding power that we cannot afford them to wield; power over taxation and the court- over the Crown itself. They would remove Royal rule entirely if we allow it. And so, we require the arrest of some of the key deputies as a deterrent. This must be stopped before it begins. Surely you see the danger.”

Aramis stared at her wildly, trying to regain control of himself. Finally, he bowed deeply and replied, “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

“I trust that the Musketeers will be able to handle these arrests without trouble?”

“I- I will write to inform them immediately,” Aramis said, straightening and accepting a document from Mazarin which bore a list of neatly printed names. He was still slightly dazed at the sudden advance in events, and so he nearly didn’t hear the Queen when she added,

“That won’t be necessary; you will be going with them.”

“But, Your Majesty, I am no longer a Musketeer,” he said, tilting his head and giving her a disbelieving half smile. “My place is here, at your side.”

“The Cardinal is perfectly capable of assisting me while you are gone,” she said with a smile and a glance to Mazarin. Aramis narrowed his eyes, looking between them but saying nothing. He bowed again. “Of course.”

“You may go,” she said, more gently. Aramis recalled the previous evening, where they had taken a long stroll through the Louvre gardens and he had stolen a kiss every few hundred metres; the air had been scented with night blooming flowers and the cool air had felt wonderful, soothing and caressing him. She had laughed like a young girl; he almost forgot that she was Queen Regent for a few hours, and hoped that she had felt the same way.

His eyes met hers for a moment, and she flushed lightly under his scrutiny before he backed away and left her with the others, hearing her laughing behind him as the doors closed between them.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

“Let’s see this list, then,” Porthos said shortly, taking the paper from Aramis and scanning it.

“Hmm. This one might be trouble.” He tapped a name about half way down. “Pierre Broussel.”

D’Artagnan glanced at Aramis and Athos for clarification.

“He’s popular with the people, seemingly,” Aramis answered him, when Athos said nothing. “I doubt they will support his arrest.”

“They don’t have a choice,” Athos said suddenly from where he stood in the corner, swigging from a bottle and leaning against the wall of d’Artagnan’s office.

“Athos, it’s barely even _morning,_ ” Aramis protested, eyeing the wine bottle. Athos stopped with it midway to his mouth, raised his eyebrows and gave Aramis a dead-eyed stare until he lifted his hands in surrender and turned away.

“We don’t have enough Musketeers to deal with riots,” Porthos frowned.

“No one said anything about riots, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said, rubbing his face wearily. “It can’t come to that, surely.” Porthos grunted and gave the list back to him.

“They like Broussel more than they do the Cardinal, is all I’m saying,” he shrugged.

“Who could blame them?” Aramis muttered under his breath. D’Artagnan glanced up at him.

“Is there something wrong with him? Do you suspect an ulterior motive?”

“I have no reason to suspect him of anything,” he said, truthfully enough. “Condé, on the other hand…”

“He’s a nasty piece of work,” Porthos agreed. “Brave though. He fights like the devil, I’ve seen him.”

Athos pushed himself away from the wall, sighing. “Shall we get to work?”

 

\--

 

PARIS STREETS- AFTERNOON

“That’s all of them,” Athos said, shoving the last man towards the guards of the _Bastille_. He squinted up at d’Artagnan, who was reading the list from horseback. “Except Broussel, correct?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan replied, frowning. “He seems to have gotten word that we were after him. He’s disappeared.”

“Someone like that has a lot of friends,” Porthos said, coiling a rope and shoving into his saddlebag roughly. “If he’s in hiding, we’ll never find him.”

“We will,” Athos shrugged, walking back to his horse with his head down against the glare of the sun. “We just need to threaten the right people.”

He paused with his hands on the saddle, groaning internally. His head was throbbing, but he hadn’t thought to bring more wine to drown it out. He remembered the years he had spent in a constant drunken haze, finally becoming so used to it that he couldn’t function without the drink in him. Then the war had happened, and he had been forced into sobriety against his will, literally kicking and screaming. His descent back into drunkenness was a slow and painful process, his body still protesting it.

 

His thoughts, when he could focus through the headache, strayed inevitably to Sylvie. He had assumed he would feel something more than regret at hurting her and nostalgia for the months they had managed peacefully, but as of yet, he had not. Not like the five years of hell with _her_ -

He squashed that thought down immediately before it could consume him with thoughts of where she was and what she was doing, and wondered about Isabelle instead. He regretted leaving her the most; would have liked to bring her with him in a thoughtless, impractical way that he knew was ridiculous and dangerous. She was safe with Sylvie; she would grow up happy and loved, educated – and probably hating him. But that was as likely whether he had her with him or not. He would provide as best he could for them both- but he saw already that Sylvie had been right. He could not imagine living there again. The relief at that realisation was short-lived before it started right back at the beginning again with _but what if I had just-_

 

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan was saying, and he realised he had been standing silently for a few minutes.

“I’m fine.” He pulled himself back into the saddle, shaking his head and pulling down the brim of his hat to shade himself. “Let’s go.”

 

It turned out to be a lot more difficult than just “threatening people” as Athos had assumed. Every inn had suddenly never heard of Broussel, and amazingly, no one had seen him for several weeks. Aramis would almost have suspected some sort of conspiracy, had he been a lesser man, as he commented to d’Artagnan after several hours of fruitless searching.

“Ow- _oi!_ ” Porthos huffed out suddenly, wheeling his horse. “Did anyone see that?”

“What?” Athos asked, but immediately had to duck as a stone flew over his head. “Oh.”

Several more stones were flung at them before they caught a glimpse of who it was- several men and women lined up in the windows of a house that looked abandoned, using slings with the clumsy hands of people unused to aiming at moving targets.

“Why are they aiming at us?” Aramis complained as he ducked again, clucking at his horse to pull it back out of their range.

“I would imagine,” Athos said, disgruntled, “That they know who we are looking for. Wearing a Musketeer uniform does tend to make one conspicuous.”

“I’m not even in uniform,” Aramis muttered pettily.

“You’re dressed in bright blue,” Porthos laughed. “You’re like a giant target, screaming _shoot me_.”

“I am _not_ screaming-“

“Do shut up,” d’Artagnan hissed.

“Can we please _move?”_ Athos grunted in pain as a stone hit his shoulder.

They rode hard past several more rows of people, weaving through the streets with reckless speed, crouched low over the backs of their horses. D’Artagnan heard several of them jeering as they rode past, screaming obscenities about both them and Mazarin- and even the Queen Regent. But they thinned out eventually, and the Musketeers pulled up their horses.

“Does anyone else think,” d’Artagnan said thoughtfully, “that the way those crowds were concentrated in that one area was a little suspicious?” He was breathing hard, his cheek grazed by a stone and bleeding slightly, but overall he was feeling rather pleased with himself at having _done_ something today instead of languishing at the garrison counting cadets. He grinned brightly at the others, and raised his eyebrows. “Shall we investigate?”

Porthos wiped his chin free of the blood from his own wound. “Looks like we found our little rat.”

Aramis sighed dramatically, smiling with merry eyes at d’Artagnan. “As always, Captain, I am at your mercy.” Porthos barked out a laugh.

 

“Athos?”

They turned to him expectantly, and he found he could just about raise a smile, despite the back of his neck having been nicked by a rogue stone that he had otherwise ducked.

Being busy again was _good_ , and even his head felt clearer, though it was still thudding and his thoughts were just as confused as ever. He sniffed, and swiped at the back of his neck.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he drawled, gesturing back towards the route they had just ridden from expansively, indicating his reluctance to re-enter the gauntlet of missiles.

“Ladies first, of course.”

He sketched a bow to d’Artagnan and leaned back in the saddle, pleased at the delighted expression that crossed the Captain’s face before he realised he’d been insulted. The scandalised expression that followed was just as fun, Porthos roaring in laughter and Aramis looking distinctly amused.

 

They left their horses in safety, moving cautiously through the streets and keeping to the sides of buildings, weapons at the ready.

“I wouldn’t feel right shooting people who are armed with rocks,” Porthos muttered as he moved, glancing about him cautiously.

“Well perhaps if you ask nicely, they’ll put them down,” Aramis said from behind him, shoving him. “Oi.” Porthos was in a good mood, considering everything. His arm and chest ached painfully, breathing still difficult when he was winded due to the ribs he’d cracked, but the sun was out, he had a job to do, and his friends were with him. That was a good day, as far as he was concerned. All he needed now was to be paid and have a drink later, and he could count it as one of the best days of recent months.

The barrage began as soon as they rounded the corner, the crowd spotting them instantly. Jeers and shouts echoed through the street, stones pattering at their feet and clacking against walls like hailstones. Athos aimed a warning shot under one of the windows, the report booming and shocking the crowd into silence for a moment before the assault restarted even more viciously than before. D’Artagnan gave him an exasperated look; he just shrugged and started reloading.

“What.”

They broke into the back door of one of the houses, Porthos kicking it in with unbridled glee, and drew their swords as they mounted the stairs.

“What exactly are we going to do about them?” Aramis said, pausing as they reached the top floor and saw a group of six or seven men with slings and piles of stones beside them.

“Disarm them,” d’Artagnan shrugged, already running at the first of the group. “Then check the house for Broussel.”

“Repeat as necessary,” Aramis said, swivelling as one of the men rushed at him. He removed his hat, tossing it at the man, and took the opportunity to knock him out with the pommel of his sword while he was distracted catching it. Taking it back, he shook it out and replaced it on his head. “Foolproof plan, Captain.”

Athos was ducking under the fists of a large, red-faced man with a shiny bald head, his hands like slabs of meat. “Come on,” he grinned tightly, all teeth, and the man lumbered towards him, slow and angry and careless, Athos having to merely step to one side to watch him go tumbling down the stairs in an unwieldy heap, groaning at the bottom and rubbing his head.

Porthos had two men to deal with. One was trying to strangle Porthos with his sling, unsuccessfully; he tried to clamber onto Porthos’ back, but the Musketeer slammed himself back against the wall of the house, detaching the unfortunate man who slid to the floor, cursing. The other one hesitated, unnerved by Porthos’ deceptively friendly grin, and then came for him anyway. Porthos tossed him out of the window.

“I said disarm them,” d’Artagnan said irritably, smacking his last man on the head with the butt of his pistol. “Is he dead?”

Porthos glanced outside. “No, but he doesn’t look too happy.”

They searched the house, finding no sign of Broussel, and moved on to the next one.

 

\---

 

LOUVRE

“You sent for me?”

Anne looked down at her hands, neatly folded in her lap, and took a breath. “I did.”

Milady de Winter tilted her head to one side, curious as to the Queen Regent’s clouded expression. “May I ask why?”

“To do your duty, of course,” she replied more sharply than she had intended, fixing Milady with a cold look. “You do recall what I employ you for?”

“You employ me to murder people on the Crown’s behalf,” Milady said conversationally. “Hardly the most forgettable of work.” She smoothed her dress down with feigned nonchalance, watching Anne carefully from under her eyelashes. The Queen Regent seemed nervous, disconcerted, not like she had done with the last assignment.

“This is a more… delicate situation than the last,” Anne said slowly. “I require surveillance rather than assassination.” She glanced at the door warily, and Milady’s interest was piqued.

“Yes?”

“There have been…rumours.”

“Rumours.”

“That Cardinal Mazarin and I- that the Cardinal-“

“Yes?” _Dear god, get on with it._

“That we are _intimate,”_ she continued in a voice so quiet as to be almost a horrified whisper.

“Indeed.” She tried to sound as shocked as she supposed she should be; it was difficult to keep the amusement out of her voice.

“I want you to find out who they are coming from, if you can; there _has_ to be a source and I want them stopped before they become out of control.” Her voice became calm again all at once, Anne forcing her breathing into a steady rhythm.

“You must know that rumours are difficult to trace,” Milady said. “It may take some time.”

“Just don’t let them spread further. So far rumours are all they have. I do not want a debacle like the last time, being handed out in the streets like- like propaganda. You may stop anyone you find spreading these lies in whatever way you see fit.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Milady said. “And, what…?”

Anne indicated a coin purse on the table in front of her. “Take it and go.”

With a small smile and a thoughtful, eager gleam in her eyes, Milady took the purse, tucked it away into her dress, and left, her head held high.

 _This is more like it,_ she thought to herself. _I can be **this** , easily._ She had found herself with a dilemma; a distaste for murder which seemed to have developed recently and was hard to shake. It wasn’t that it upset her, so much as she was left with a vaguely empty, hollow feeling afterwards, rather than the satisfaction of a job well done. Hardly the ideal state for an assassin for hire.

 _God,_ she thought with bitter amusement. _Athos would be so proud._ She curled her lip and quickened her step, wanting out of this damn palace as fast as possible. But she faltered, one step before recovering herself; thinking of Athos, inevitably.

Where he had run off to, she didn’t care. As long as he was gone, out of her way and out of her life. Unconsciously, she touched the choker at her neck as she walked, slowing.

 _He chose her- he defied the law to save her from a flogging. He left me to hang._ Her face burned with fury and shame, her jaw set defiantly. Well, what of it? She hoped he was miserable and poor somewhere. She should have killed the bitch when she had the chance.

She had thought they had been close to- what? Rekindling their marriage? Friendship? She disgusted herself with her sentiment. Clearly she had been mistaken. She had thought- when she found the glove among his things-

 _Ugh._  She stopped herself, slipping out of the Louvre and into the crowds in silence.

 

\---

 

 

PARIS STREETS- EVENING

“If he’s not in this one,” Porthos said, panting, “I swear I’m going to drag one of these poor sods off to the prison instead, Broussel be damned.” He leaned against the door, gathering his breath before kicking it, and winced at the pain in his chest.

“Is it bad?” Aramis asked, concerned. “I should take a look at it later.”

“No chance.” But he sucked in a pained breath and let it out, shudderingly. Aramis eyed him and raised an eyebrow, but Porthos ignored it.

“He has to be,” d’Artagnan said breathlessly. “This is the only house left in this entire part of the city that we haven’t searched.”

Athos glanced around him, wiping sweat from his brow. “Let’s get on with it then, before it gets dark. Porthos?”

Porthos nodded and took a step back, kicking the wood hard enough for it to splinter from its hinges and all but explode inwards. D’Artagnan went in first. _If he isn’t in here, I hope someone has a plan._

They took out the men at the top with more difficulty than the previous houses, all of them winded and sore. Athos was sporting a darkening bruise under his eye from a stone that had been thrown at him. Aramis was scratched and aching. Even d’Artagnan had a nasty cut on his forehead that was bleeding irritatingly into his eye, forcing him to wipe at it repeatedly as he fought and wincing as the sweat stung it. But they fought with grim and silent determination, Athos knocking two men unconscious at once by smashing their skulls together. He wheeled, checking to see if the others were prevailing. D’Artagnan shoved his man out of the window. Porthos gestured at him accusingly. “You told me not to do that!” With a shrug, d’Artagnan glanced out of the smashed window. “He’s fine.”

The man sobbed, screaming in pain, and Porthos raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

Barely even looking, Porthos smacked the man he was fighting on the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. “I’m bored of this.”

Aramis was engaged with two men in an awkward sword fight- well, Aramis had a sword. The others had a chair leg and a pitchfork and were swinging them wildly while Aramis dodged and weaved and attempted not to kill them both.

“Are you _sure_ we can’t-“ he said over his shoulder to d’Artagnan, making a stabbing motion with his rapier.

“No.”

“I thought as much.”

Athos walked up behind the men and smacked each of them smartly with his pistol, sighing. They went down like a sack of bricks, groaning. Athos replaced his pistol on his belt and looked expectantly at d’Artagnan.

“Could you have done that a little sooner?” Aramis complained, glancing at the three jagged rips in his doublet from the pitchfork.

“Sorry,” Athos said, deadpan. “You looked like you were having fun.”

Aramis groaned and clapped Athos on the shoulder on the way past him.

 

There was no sign of Broussel in the house and d’Artagnan was starting to lose hope of ever getting this job done when Aramis suddenly hushed them all. He stepped back over the floorboards, and then stamped his foot. “Does that sound hollow to any of you?”

Athos nodded, and Porthos drew his sword in silence, followed by d’Artagnan. Aramis knelt with Athos and they prised up the boards with their knives, working as quickly as possible to avoid a possible escape- or to give anyone below enough time to prepare an attack.

 

There was only one man under there, covered in dust and wide eyed. Definitely not a fighter, he was stout and soft looking, his hands above his head before they had even threatened him.

“Broussel, I presume?” d’Artagnan said wearily, four swords pointed at the unfortunate man’s head as he nodded eagerly, clearly terrified into muteness.

 

\---

 

 

GARRISON

D’Artagnan was woken rudely and suddenly a few days later by a constant banging on his door. He groaned and rolled out of bed, Constance frowning and sitting up sleepily beside him. “What on Earth-?”

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan grumbled, pulling on some clothes and opening the door to find Porthos, Aramis and Athos stood there looking agitated.

“You sleep like the dead!” Aramis said, pushing his way into the room and then seeing Constance. “My apologies,” he said immediately, turning away. “But this is rather urgent, Captain.”

D’Artagnan stared at them blearily and rubbed his eyes. “What is it.”

It occurred to him that if Aramis was there, it must involve the Queen Regent and the young King, and he forced himself to wake up, blinking rapidly. He had barely slept; so much paperwork to get through that he had only eaten when reminded by Constance, who was tired herself after spending most of the day giving out supplies to refugees and finishing up handing out recruitment pamphlets. She wasn’t sleeping well in general lately, either; often she was awake before d’Artagnan, shaking her head vaguely when he asked about it.

He had managed to fall asleep sometime in the early hours- and a glance outside told him that it was only just dawn now. Still, if Aramis thought it was urgent-

“There are barricades in the streets,” Athos said without preamble. He had another bottle in his hand and looked exhausted, his hair unkempt and the bruise under his eye blooming into yellows and purples.

“Barricades?”

“Apparently,” Porthos said, “Some people objected to the arrest of Broussel.”

“Surely that didn’t cause them to barricade themselves in the streets?”

“They seem to want the release of everyone we spent hours gathering,” Aramis said. “Rather rude, I’d say.”

Athos huffed out a noise that might have been amusement.

“What did the Queen say?” d’Artagnan asked, buttoning up his doublet hastily and shoving his feet into his boots.

“Her Majesty is obviously eager for us to suppress the rioters as soon as possible,” Aramis replied. “The longer we let this go on, the more danger she and the young King will be in.”

“And the prisoners?”

“I fear they may be released before this is over.”

 

“Wake the men, and the best cadets. We’re going to need help.”

“We still don’t have enough soldiers, you know,” Porthos said, shaking his head even as he ran off to do as he was bidden.

“I know.” A few more had arrived, drawn by Constance and Elodie’s pamphlets around the city, but the garrison was still woefully short, and those who had arrived were in a sorry state, half-starved and miserable. D’Artagnan was doing his best and even Athos had pitched in to help teach them the basics of decent swordsmanship, finding that he enjoyed the practical, repetitive work of sparring and instructing as much as he had in previous years. It was a good opportunity to focus his mind on something constructive- and re-learn some of his old skills, the lack of use he had made of them in the last few months leaving him a little rusty, to his shame.

 

They gathered in the yard, and d’Artagnan started splitting them into groups, sending them off to various areas of the city hurriedly. He could hear commotion from the streets already, a dull murmur of angry conversations and the thuds and scrapes of what he assumed were hastily erected barricades being fortified.

Finally, he turned to the other three.

“Aramis, Porthos- can you go to the Bastille? I want someone there in case anyone decides a jailbreak is a good idea. Take a few cadets.”

“Captain,” Aramis nodded, getting onto his horse and waiting for Porthos to pick who he wanted to take-and say goodbye to Elodie, who was fetching horses and yawning. “It’s as if I never left.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “Except now I get to tell you what to do. If you decide to come back to us, maybe I’ll take you under my wing. Aramis the apprentice Musketeer has a nice ring to it.”

“Ah, you still remember that.”

 Aramis inclined his head, smiling, and spurred his horse after Porthos.

 

D’Artagnan turned to Constance, smiling, and kissed her lightly. “Will you stay at the garrison?”

She nodded, reassuringly. "Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She glanced behind her to where Elodie was standing with d’Artagnan’s horse. “We’ll take care of things here. Any wounded, fresh horses, that sort of thing.”

D’Artagnan nodded in turn, and looked briefly to Athos, who was standing waiting silently a few metres away, his eyes averted politely. “Stay safe, Constance.”

“I’m not the one riding off into a riot,” she sighed, shaking her head fondly. “Go on.”

He swung up into the saddle with a grin and waited for Athos to join him.

“Where to, Captain?”

 

\---

 

PARIS STREETS

It turned out that the first barricades they saw were shoddy, hastily put together affairs, the people manning them determined but poorly armed.  Athos and d’Artagnan rode together, trying to avoid stones aimed at them and see what exactly they could do about the problem. They didn’t seem particularly organised, but they were violent, shouting and jeering as the Musketeers rode past, throwing rocks and threatening them with the odd musket or sword. There were hand painted signs on walls calling for the release of the prisoners and denouncing the Queen Regent and the King- but most of all, Mazarin himself.

“He is not a popular man,” Athos commented as he rode past one sloppily painted sign that questioned the Cardinal’s parentage in no uncertain terms.

Each street seemed to have more obstructions, more problems than the last, those in the centre of Paris heavily guarded and armed with pistols and muskets. There were fights breaking out and as they approached the Louvre, they saw several groups of people attempting to gain entry to the palace, held out by palace guards.

“We don’t have enough people to fix this,” d’Artagnan said quietly, horrified by the scale of the rioting. “To stop this, we’d need ten times the men we have. At least.” Athos grunted in acknowledgment, looking about him warily. “If there are no reinforcements-“

“How can there be? We’re at war with Spain,” d’Artagnan said helplessly. “There’s no one left, and I can’t-”

Athos leaned across and put his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’re doing a good job, Captain,” he said softly, looking at him steadily. D’Artagnan swallowed and nodded, opening his mouth to reply but cut off by a roar from the crowd and a sudden surge of movement towards the Louvre.

They glanced at each other and rode hard towards the gates, seeing the guards becoming overrun with people attempting to get at the palace, screaming and shooting and beating at each other in their desperation. They charged through the crowd, scattering any that they could with their horses, before slipping out of their saddles and entering the fray, fighting through the people to reach the guards and help them hold the gates.

 

“Back!” Athos roared in fury, turning to the mass of people clawing their way to him. He raised his pistol and shot into the air, a few of them jumping back but quickly replaced by more. He ducked as a gun was fired somewhere to his left, hearing someone groan in pain, and drew his sword, seeing d’Artagnan do the same beside him. The guards were breathing heavily, their eyes wild and their swords trembling, but the sight of Athos and d’Artagnan bolstered their courage enough to raise their arms again and prepare for a fight. The crowd seemed to hesitate as one entity, swaying back, but then it came forward again like a crashing wave, swords flashing in many hands.

The fight was short, brutal, and deadly, d’Artagnan and Athos, alongside the newly encouraged guards, dispatching anyone who crossed swords with them and shoving back others who were unarmed but came at them all the same. They fought grimly and without flourish or speech, knowing that they were all that stood between this mob and the King. D’Artagnan received a wound to his arm that he ignored without complaint. Athos worked methodically and silently, making up for the weakness on d’Artagnan’s left side from his injury. It seemed at first as though there was no end to it, the crowd angry enough to just keep coming despite being cut down again and again.

It was over suddenly and without warning, the crowd dispersing with barely a sound, leaving a pile of the dead and injured at the feet of Athos and d’Artagnan. Athos slumped back against the gates, breathing hard, and he glanced at d’Artagnan to find he was doing the same. He gave him a nod with questioning eyes, and after moving his arm experimentally, d’Artagnan nodded back, wearily. “I’m fine.” They looked to the other guards, all looking exhilarated and exhausted, laughing among themselves, and after checking that they would be alright without them, they got back onto their horses and rode on, back into the chaos of the barricaded off streets.

 

\---

 

BASTILLE

Porthos sat on a barrel, drumming it idly with his fingertips while Aramis stood beside him, leaning against the wall and using his hat for shade from the sun.

“This is nice,” Porthos said, squinting in the bright daylight. “We got the easy job.”

Aramis hummed in agreement, glancing around them. “So it would seem.” The Bastille was relatively quiet; guards posted at the entrance and so far, no rioters or potential problems of any sort. They had been waiting for an hour or more now, the sun fully up and bright, and Porthos was in a good mood with himself at the thought of a quiet day.

“I wish I’d brought a drink,” he mused, grinning at Aramis. “That would really have made my day.”

“You and your wine,” Aramis sighed with a smile. “You’re almost as bad as Athos.”

“Hey now,” Porthos chuckled, mock-offended. “That’s too far. Do you think there’s wine in this barrel?”

“Have you noticed he’s drinking again?” Aramis said mildly, not looking at Porthos.

“I have.” Porthos was kicking his heels against the wood of the barrel underneath him thoughtfully.

“He stopped almost entirely when we were in the war.”

“Well, he didn’t have much choice with that, did he?”

“True,” Aramis nodded thoughtfully, “but he didn’t start it up again when we got home.”

Porthos grunted, frowning.

“It’s her again,” Aramis said flatly.

“Who? That wife of his?”

“He’s like he was years ago. And why is he back here?”

“Because d’Artagnan asked?”

“And he’s made no mention at all of Sylvie – or his daughter – since he got here.”

Porthos twisted on the barrel to look up at Aramis. “You think-? Nah.”

“He almost went with her, you know. His wife. I think-“

But what he thought was cut off as a boom rocked through the street, echoing with a roar that was almost painful. Aramis ducked instinctively, startled, and Porthos already had his sword drawn defensively.

“The hell is that?” Porthos said wildly, looking around. They could hear screams and shouts from nearby, and guards were beginning to appear with swords and pistols, scouting for the explosion.

From around a corner, a bleeding Musketeer appeared, charging towards them as fast as he could. He was deathly pale and bleeding from his ear, but he managed to keep on his feet long enough to reach Porthos and Aramis and the prison guards.

“Please,” he said, too loud. Aramis realised he probably couldn’t hear well. “Explosion- buildings collapsed- people-“ he coughed, falling to his knees, and could speak no more. Aramis looked at Porthos, and Porthos nodded. “Let’s go!” he yelled to the guards, running towards the screams. Aramis stayed behind long enough to press a strip of his shirt to the injured man’s head, tell him to keep it there, and order two guards to take him back to the garrison, before he too ran as fast as he could to help.

 

There was chaos. No matter the cause of the explosion, it had been devastating; people crushed under the weight of falling rubble, some dying instantly but others crippled or broken, lying uselessly and screaming. The lucky ones were unconscious. Porthos was on his knees, digging out someone from a crush of stone and wood, already covered in dust and grime. There was a fire blazing nearby, wood burning with splintering, popping noises that were somehow audible over the cries of the dying. Aramis could hear the building that was on fire groaning weakly, ready to collapse. He could feel the heat from here, and could smell a sickly-sweet smell that he knew was human flesh cooking. He blinked back tears from the smoke, disgusted, before turning to find the best way he could be of assistance, and instantly spotted a man who had a wound to his stomach, bleeding profusely. He was crying weakly, unable to shout, and Aramis knew from experience that the quieter someone was when injured, the worse it was going to be. He ran over to the man, ripping his shirt open and checking the injury. It was bloody and deep but looked like it might have missed perforating his bowel. “You might be lucky, my friend,” he said softly to the man, propping his head up. Quickly, he ripped the man’s shirt into strips, and using some as wadding, he bound the wound tightly. “Keep still,” he instructed, moving on to the next man. His head was cool, his knowledge and experience kicking in with impersonal detachment that he found hard to access in normal circumstances, and he worked thoroughly and quickly on anyone he spotted who he thought he could help.

 

Porthos’ nails were bleeding, his hands cut and bruised already, but he kept on digging people out, dragging them over to the injured or dead as necessary. He sweated and strained, swearing under his breath but unable to give up until he knew there were no more survivors to be found. His strength would not fail him, he knew that much; it never had until now, anyway, and he intended to test it to the limit. There were children in here, too; he pulled them out as gently as possible and tried to match them to parents who were conscious.

“I got you, I got you,” he said, breathing heavily as he lifted a little girl out of the mess. She was crying and her tears were streaking a clean path through the dirt on her cheeks, but she looked relatively unharmed and clung to Porthos as though she were his own child. “It’s alright.” He stood, looking around for anyone who might know her, and was relieved beyond belief to find a woman running towards him with her arms outstretched. She was sobbing, and Porthos handed over the child to her. “Thank you,” she said between gasps of breath. “Thank you.”

The little girl turned to him as they walked off, waving at him shakily, and Porthos waved back, taking a second to stretch his back before turning to his task once more. _One more_ , he thought, knowing that after that there would be one more, and one more, until he was unconscious or finished. He could hear the warning groans of the building next to him, aware that he needed to be out from underneath it before the whole blazing structure fell onto him.

 

\----

 

GARRISON

“Why are you only bring back our men?” Constance demanded of the cadets who were carting injured men to the garrison. She was up to her elbows in blood, a streak of it over her cheek and her chin, and she looked pale and shaken. She had managed to recruit a young doctor from the city who had arrived at the garrison to warn them – too late- of the barricades, and he was working hard beside her to staunch the flow of blood in as many men as possible at once. The doctor, Blanchard, had run back into the riots and the barricades to bring his supplies with him, and Constance was relieved and grateful to have stumbled upon him. Well, he had stumbled upon her, she supposed.

The injuries that they were seeing coming in were not serious for the most part, mostly caused by a lucky shot with a stone or an inexpert sword thrust through a non-vital area, but there were a few men who had been carried back on makeshift stretchers, groaning and bleeding heavily, and Constance didn’t think her and Elodie would have managed on their own.

Elodie returned with a bowl of water and some more cloths, hurrying to the side of the latest arrival and taking him to one side so she could clean out his wound. It was the musketeer with the bleeding ears, and the guards with him were struck dumb at Constance’s question.

“What do you mean?” one asked, unwisely.

“These men- they are all musketeers,” she explained as though to a child. “Surely the people on the other side are injured as well? Probably worse than this lot are!”

“Yes, but-“

“So tell your men to bring back anyone they can,” she said with all the authority she could muster. “No one deserves to die out there when they don’t have to.”

The guards looked at each other and then at Constance, as if they couldn’t decide whether to laugh or bow. Their eyes flickered to the Musketeer uniform insignia on her shoulder, and after a hesitation that was full of confusion, they bowed and retreated with an agreement to spread the word.

“Constance,” Elodie said quietly, having told the injured man to sit down and wait for the doctor’s attention, “Will we manage if they do that?”

“We have to,” she said grimly, touching Elodie on the shoulder gently. “It’s our duty.” Elodie nodded, encouraged. “Good.” With a quick smile, Elodie carried on with her work, thoroughly and methodically binding wounds, cleaning off blood, and ordering men to various areas of the yard. Constance felt a flash of gratitude to have her with them. She knew that Elodie was often busy with her child, and was as tired as the rest of them, but she barely complained to anyone except Porthos, who readily argued with her in a spirited and loud way that both parties enjoyed immensely.

She could shoot, too; Constance had seen her practicing with her bow in the yard in the early hours of the morning. She wondered if Elodie would be willing to teach her, someday. It might be useful.

 

“Bring him here,” she said as she noticed another man being dragged through the gates.

 

\---

 

GARRISON- EVENING

“Constance,” d’Artagnan said as he rode back into the yard, exhausted and blinking sweat from his brow. “Why are there so many people in here?”

Constance glanced up at him from where her and Blanchard were tying bandages around a man’s bleeding thigh. “They’re injured. We’re helping.”

“And who’s he?”

“Doctor Blanchard, at your service- apparently,” the good doctor said with a nod to d’Artagnan. “My apologies. I’d be more polite but this man would be unlikely to thank me.” D’Artagnan shook his head. “Of course.” He took another look around the yard, bewildered, and slid from his horse. Athos did the same beside him, taking stock of the situation much faster than d’Artagnan seemed to be able to, and began ordering the cadets who had arrived with them to help the doctor as best they could. He took the horses to their stalls and when he arrived back, d’Artagnan was still looking lost.

“Constance, a word?” d’Artagnan asked, and Constance gave an apologetic glance to the doctor, coming over in irritation.

“Why did you let these people in here?” d’Artagnan hissed. “They are rioters-“

“They bleed just the same as you lot do,” she said stubbornly.

“That may be, but we’re supposed to be _fighting them_ , not patching them up after we stab them!”

“ _I’m_ not stabbing them,” she pointed out. “They’ll be moved to a hospital soon enough, don’t worry. I won’t have them littering up your precious yard.” She gave him a contemptuous look. “These people are poor and desperate and you would rather they died on the street than have a little comfort and a chance at survival?” Before d’Artagnan could respond, she walked away, back to the doctor’s side.

Athos had sidled out of earshot of that uncomfortable conversation, not willing to be caught in the crossfire, and had picked up a bottle of wine on the way to the stairs, where he perched uncomfortably and watched the yard. He wasn’t much good at patching people up, and knew he would just get in the way, so he was left to his thoughts.

 

Predictably, they swung towards Sylvie and Isabelle, finding the thoughts of her a little less painful today than they had been even just a few days before. There was still regret at his actions, yes; not the outcome, which he was starting to let himself believe was the right one, but at the callous way he had walked out on her with barely an explanation or a word of comfort. She had deserved better than that.

He took a drink and stared at the boards beneath his feet, thinking about what he would say when he wrote to her with the first purse of money for their daughter. Sorry would be a good start, but he was not sure that he was, not really. Guilty, certainly, and wretched at how he had treated her for the last month or so, but that was not quite the same. He had never even apologised to Anne-

_Not Anne. Not anymore._

To “Milady de Winter”- and the name felt forced, even in his mind- for what he had done to her all those years ago. If she had been telling the truth about even that one thing, if his brother really had tried to rape her, then he owed her an apology bigger than he could ever comprehend, all of his years of doubt and self-loathing and fury not enough to make it up to her for his blind judgement.

He had clung to the idea that she had to have been lying, that everything she said had been an elaborate ruse designed to entrap him, long enough to find out that she had even lied about her death.

But she had maintained that one part, that one defence, without wavering or changing it, even telling people who had no investment or connection- even telling him to his face, before the crossroads and the war. Why would she lie to someone who had no intention of ever believing her again?

 

Clearly he had believed her for long enough to consider making a life with her in England, even after everything between them.

 _But she left early._ He still didn’t know why, knew only that she had been there waiting for him and he had failed and everything since then had seemed inevitable and fated, even her disappearance after that last kiss and the discovery of Sylvie’s pregnancy leading him to walk away from everything he knew.

 

He groaned heavily, his head full of tangled thoughts, and finished the bottle as Porthos and Aramis rode in, raising the empty vessel in salute to them.

 

“Who the hell is this lot?” was Porthos’ first question to Elodie, who had found a spare moment to take their horses for them.

“Injured people,” she threw back over her shoulder, making Constance smile, and Porthos and Aramis glanced at each other in confusion as they saw d’Artagnan shamefacedly carrying a bucket of hot water and a towel. He hesitated as he saw them, shrugged, and said, “They need help,” before carrying on, Constance inclining her head at him with a reconciliatory air.

Aramis took off his doublet with a sigh and got to work once more, Porthos following Elodie to see what she needed assistance with. He gave her an awkward kiss as they walked, her hands full with the horses. She giggled at his attempt and swatted him with a rein.

A little later, Aramis excused himself to return to the Louvre, leaving the others to finish up and fall into bed, the injured taken to hospitals and the yard sanded over.

 

\---

 

LOUVRE

“Aramis, you’re covered in blood!” Anne said with horror. Aramis looked down at himself in shame, realising that in his hurry he had forgotten to change.

“None of it is mine, You Majesty,” he returned with a low bow. “I came as soon as possible to inform you that the rioting is becoming heated. We require more men than we have, and they are demanding the release of the prisoners we took earlier.”

“What is your advice?”

“I would advise their release,” he said reluctantly. “I fear without a reconciliatory measure, the mob will not be appeased without military force, and we have none due to the war.”

The Queen Regent nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate your honesty.”

“We cannot allow them to be free-“ Cardinal Mazarin objected, rounding on Aramis. “They are traitors to the Crown and to France!”

“You would rather we had riots in the streets and a mob at your door than to release a few parliamentary officials?” Aramis asked, adding an acerbic, “Your Eminence.”

“Enough!” Anne said.

The Cardinal paled noticeably and looked at the Queen Regent pleadingly. “Your Majesty, I submit wholly to your orders, of course.”

“As do I,” Aramis added. Condé looked between them, sneering vaguely. “You allow your subjects too much leniency,” he said to the Queen. She gave him a brief look and then ignored him.

“Release the prisoners,” she said finally. “And Cardinal? We need to discuss a proposal of reform for Parlement; we must be seen to be reasonable.”

“Your Majesty,” Mazarin said, sounding unhappy but bowing all the same. Anne gave him a sympathetic glance, and then turned to Aramis. “I thank you and the Musketeers for your service today,” she said, sounding as though there was more she would like to say but was unable to and ending up seeming distant and vague. “I trust we can continue to trust them?”

“They would lay down their lives for you and the King,” he said truthfully. “As would I- as would any loyal subject,” he amended quickly, noting the flicker of alarm in her eyes. She nodded and dismissed him and Condé, walking away with Mazarin in a familiar way that was still troubling to Aramis. Surely there was nothing to it; still, it niggled. Condé left too quickly, almost _skulking,_ and Aramis went to follow him through the corridors at a safe distance. Strangely, the Prince acted as though he was afraid of surveillance, glancing around him often and locking his doors behind him as soon as he entered his rooms. Aramis frowned to himself, listening outside the door but hearing nothing.

With some reservations, he returned to his own office and sat down wearily at his desk, intending to do some paperwork.

He fell asleep almost instantly.

 

\---

 

OUTSIDE PARIS- CARRIAGE

Milady de Winter had been led a merry chase trying to discover the source of the rumours she was assigned to stop. After a  lot of “he said, she said” from peasants, and a fruitless search of Aramis’ office in the hopes of finding something incriminating on paper, she had finally found that though there was no proof of guilt, there were several provinces in the vicinity who were vociferously against Mazarin. Perhaps someone there might be of assistance if she was very, _very_ persuasive. She was sure that the source came from someone in Paris- and likely someone high up, if all of the deflection and the shiftiness was to be believed – but a little threatening might turn something up from someone not quite so close to the threat of retaliation.

And there was a bonus; Milady looked at the paper in her hand with a small smile, her fingertip brushing a name and place halfway down her list of potential informants. This one, she would definitely enjoy.

She was going home- well, to one of the nearest things she had, anyway.                                                 

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. EPISODE THREE: "FACING THE PAST"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Well, the Milathos has arrived, everyone. Here's hoping you like it so far. Bear with their shitty communication, they'll get there. This is a pretty much stand alone episode. Plot returns next time.**

EPISODE THREE: FACING THE PAST

 

GARRISON

It wasn’t even dawn yet, the sky still wavering between black and that greyish, watery tone that comes before the sun. Even the birds weren’t awake, the air silent except for the occasional snort of breath from a horse in its stall.

Athos was in the training yard, sat at the table with a bottle of wine in his hand and two more beside him. He had been drinking steadily for half an hour now; unable to sleep thanks to the nightmares that still haunted him, he had decided to get a head start on the day with wine. Feeling like shit, he dragged himself out to the yard to enjoy the peace and solitude from everyone except his own thoughts.

_Sylvie._ He had sent her a letter, along with everything he could spare for the moment. The money was for Isabelle; the letter, more for his own sanity, apologising for everything he was but explaining he was unable to change it. He should never have left the Musketeers- he saw that now, with the clarity that only comes from distance. This was his home, his family. Walking out on them when they had been so completely destroyed had been wrong, and doing so in the belief he could change his own fundamental nature was stupid. He had known he was not fit to be Captain, but he was certainly not fit to be anything except a soldier right now.

So he told Sylvie that she had been right, and that he was not going to be coming back except to see his daughter. He told her that he would send more money when he could, that he hoped Isabelle was well, that she could visit him in Paris if she wished to- as a friend.

It felt cathartic, and he felt guilty that it did.

 

It hadn’t helped the nightmares, because the nightmares had nothing to do with his guilt towards Sylvie and everything to do with his wife. So here he was, in the pre-dawn gloom, already pleasantly warm and numb and idly contemplating _her._ He remembered her smell; the jasmine-warmth of her skin and the cruel, beautiful curl of her lips when she smiled. Remembered the last time they had kissed, when he had tried to choke the life out of her in one brief, desperate moment of lunacy, hating himself for it every day since. He thought of how they had been so close to something; how ready he had been to go to her at the crossroads and how his heart had lurched sickeningly when he saw she had gone early. How he had hated her for leaving and hated himself for being so long that she had done so. He had kept the glove, his only link to her, not knowing why he did it but knowing he had to.

And that glove was ultimately why he was back here, back where he had left her when he ran off from the destruction of his home.

 

There was a noise behind him. Turning, he saw Constance hesitating in the doorway. She was dressed, but not in her usual meticulous way; her hair was loose around her shoulders, her eyes smudged with dark circles and her step unsteady as she continued towards him down the stairs.

Athos gave her a short nod, saying nothing, and waited as she slid onto the bench opposite him with a shaky sigh, burying her face into her hands.

 _She looks like I feel,_ he thought with some wry amusement, pushing one of the other bottles of wine over the table to her.

“Thanks.” She opened the bottle and poured it into a cup- which Athos hadn’t bothered to do- rolling it idly between her palms as she tried to work up the motivation to actually drink it.

Athos grunted and took another drink, looking at her from under his eyelashes as he did. She looked exhausted.

With a quick, decisive motion, she lifted her drink and drained it, pouring herself another. Athos raised his bottle to her in a lazy salute and she gave him a half-smile back. There was silence for a few moments.

“Bad dreams?” Athos asked finally, lifting his eyes to her, his fingers playing absently with the neck of the bottle in front of him. Constance sighed out a long breath, rubbing at her forehead. “Yes.”

Athos nodded but said nothing, waiting.

“Have you ever had a dream where you have to see something terrible, and you can’t move or do anything to help except scream but nothing comes out?” she blurted finally, looking at him as though worried he would laugh.

“Yes.” He took another drink, watching her, and took a guess to avoid saying more. “Lemay?”

She nodded at him, relieved. “I had to watch them murder him,” she said quietly. “Rochefort held my head and made me see.” She shuddered, her eyes distant. “I wish I could stop seeing it.”

Athos blinked, lowering his gaze to the bottle again.

“It’s not any better just imagining it,” he offered slowly. “I didn’t _see_ it, not then, but every night since I have.” He grimaced, shrugging. “But that was my own doing. What happened to Lemay wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s hard to believe that,” Constance replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Was it your wife?”

Athos nodded. “It’s always my wife.”  Shaking himself, he changed the subject.

“Have you spoken to d’Artagnan?”

“I tried, but he’s so busy, and he isn’t sleeping much himself so I didn’t want to worry him…” she said, trailing off. She took another, long, drink. “Does this help?”

“Not really.”

“You blame yourself for too much.” She looked at him shrewdly, and in an unexpected gesture, leaned across the table to cup his face, lifting his chin so he was looking into her eyes. “It’s like you’re mourning her, but she’s still here, Athos.” He gave her an almost- smile, leaning into her hand wearily.

“Is she?”

“You’re daft, all of you men,” she said more lightly than she meant, shaking her head. She went to withdraw her hand, but Athos took it in his gently. “Thank you, Constance.” He thought he knew a way he could help her, and meant to do so as soon as possible.

“And- if you like,” he said, awkwardly, knowing that his company was never the most jovial, “I do this most mornings, if you’re awake and need a drink.”

She smiled, a tired but genuine smile, and nodded, standing slowly and leaving him to his thoughts.

 

\---

 

LOUVRE

Condé opened his letter carefully, leaning back in his chair with an amused air. This would be the third letter this week; offers of reward and pleas for his alliance becoming more frequent since the disastrous proposals of Mazarin had angered the Parlement. It seemed almost everyone wanted him on their side. Granted, he had allegedly pledged himself to the Crown and all that entailed; but these offers were becoming more tempting by the moment. He smiled, a thin, cruel expression, reading this latest in a series of letters that, though thinly veiled, essentially asked him to side with the dissatisfied nobles and various unhappy minor princes who wished for his aid against the Royal rule.

He would bide his time still. He had work to do here, first- discrediting Mazarin should be one of the easier tasks he had set himself. If the rumours he had planted about the Cardinal and the Queen Regent weren’t enough to sow the seeds of doubt in the people closest to them, he had plenty of other things he could manage. It mattered not who spread them, only that they could not be traced back to his own hand. Paris seemed to need no excuse to dislike the man, anyway.

He tossed the letter into his drawer and locked it, pocketing the key thoughtfully.

\--

 

LOUVRE

“Your Majesty,” Cardinal Mazarin said, anxiously. “The proposals we negotiated, and the release of the political prisoners, appear to have settled the people in Paris for the moment, though tensions are still high. However,” he paused, glancing to Aramis as if for help, and receiving none, continued, “there are several smaller issues being reported in provinces surrounding the city- nobles attempting to lead their people into riots, talk of uprisings, that sort of thing. Nothing has come of it as yet, but…”

Anne sighed, turning from the window where she was watching her son play with his governess. “I see. What do you propose, Aramis?”

“We could send Musketeers to act as a deterrent,” he said after a moment’s thought. “The situation here seems to be under control for now, and we can spare some time while things settle.”

 

He was distracted, trying to reconcile the way Anne was acting today with yesterday, when she had come to his rooms in the middle of the night, her kisses tender and needy and deliciously sweet after a long day. Then, she had declared that she loved him, would do anything for him, and he had said the same in turn, their kisses turning into much more than just kisses quickly. She was gone before he awoke, and he had been thinking of her all day; but she seemed closer to Cardinal Mazarin than ever today, laughing with him and whispering in secretive voices so that he couldn’t hear the words.

The Queen Regent clasped her hands in front of her, glancing at Mazarin for his opinion. He nodded quickly.

“That would seem to be the best course, then,” she said to Aramis. “Will you report there at once, please?”

“You’re sending me again?”

“We can manage,” she said. “I thought you might enjoy some time away from the palace and your paperwork.”

“Your Majesty is most kind,” he said simply, bowing before he left. He did relish seeing his friends, enjoyed being back in action, but he didn’t like being essentially moved like a pawn, taken out of the way for whatever purposes they had. Being First Minister seemed like a job only in title- Aramis certainly wasn’t feeling as though he was needed.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

D’Artagnan opened his letters idly, not paying much attention, one hand picking up grapes and shovelling them into his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually eaten something sitting down; this felt like a luxury.

_What’s this?_

It was addressed only to “the Captain of the Musketeers,” and was in handwriting he didn’t know; a steady, scrawling hand. He’d already broken the seal, so he opened it with a frown, leaving a grape half way to his open mouth as he read the contents and realised it wasn’t for him at all.

 

“Athos!” he yelled, going to the balcony and leaning over it. “Letter for you.”

“For me?” Athos frowned. He was expecting one from Sylvie, he supposed, but she wouldn’t send it to d’Artagnan. He got up from the bench with stiff knees, groaning as he went to take the letter.

The seal alone made him groan again. “Oh, no. No, no.”

He scanned it briefly, his scowl deepening with every line.

 

_To Captain Athos, of the King’s Musketeers_

_I regret to inform you that we require assistance once more. Catherine de Garaville is attempting to take control of Pinon under the pretence of uniting us against the Crown- for what reason, we do not know, nor, we suspect, does she. I believe she wishes simply to exert power over the people who you gave your land to, nothing more noble than that. She is styling herself as the owner of Pinon, ordering us at her whim despite us attempting to ignore her threats, and is making life miserable for us all with a handful of villagers she has recruited to her side._

_Your assistance will be gratefully awaited_

_The people of Pinon_

The seal was his own, given to the new mayor before he had left the last time. Athos swore violently, tearing the letter into two halves and tossing it to the ground.

“I’m not going back there-“ he said, pointing at the letter and squinting up at d’Artagnan, “Ever again.”

D’Artagnan said nothing, leaning over the railings and waiting for Athos to calm down.

“I can’t,” he said after a while, his voice broken like d’Artagnan had only heard once before, years ago now. A vivid memory of Athos kneeling before his burning house flashed into d’Artagnan’s mind, a memory still so strong that he could almost smell the smoke.

“They need you,” d’Artagnan reminded him gently. “You’re the only one they trust.”

“I gave them no reason to trust me!” Athos shouted. “I left them, I abandoned them-“

“You saved them once.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“That doesn’t matter. They’re grateful. You gave them freedom, their lives back. They believe you can do it again.”

 

Athos sank onto the bench, his head buried in his hands. “I can’t,” he said again.

“We’ll be going past there on our way back home anyway,” Aramis said, appearing guiltily at Athos’ side. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“What do you mean, Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked, joining them down in the yard. Porthos was sauntering over as well, clearly intrigued by the shouting.

“Her Majesty has ordered us to take a ride in the countryside and deter the peasants from revolting,” Aramis said with a smile that was half amused, half annoyed. Porthos laughed outright. “Tell me we’re getting paid for this.”

“We are indeed, my friend,” Aramis replied, gripping Porthos’ shoulder in greeting as the big man joined the group. Porthos gave him a one armed hug, his injured side still giving him trouble.

“What exactly does she want us to do?” d’Artagnan asked in confusion. “I thought the release of the prisoners had settled everyone.”

“It has, for the most part. I believe we are merely a deterrent; a show of force should anyone get any ideas of rebellion,” Aramis shrugged elegantly. “But the route we’ve been given goes right past Pinon on our way back here.”

Athos said nothing, flicking his eyes up to Aramis and then back to the ground. He looked utterly defeated.

 

“We should stop by and check on things, at least,” d’Artagnan said with a glance to Athos.

“Are you saying that as my friend, or as my Captain?” Athos replied in a monotone.

“If you want me to make it an order, Athos, I refuse. This is not my business.”

Athos barked out a noise that would have been mistaken for a laugh in anyone else and reached for the wine. Finding it gone, he hurled the empty bottle at the wall and got up, stalking only a few paces before Porthos grabbed his shoulder and held him back. “Athos.”

“Let go of me,” Athos growled viciously, barely even sparing Porthos a look. “I refuse to go back there.”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan said curtly. “But we still have a job to do, so get ready to ride.”

Athos shrugged off Porthos’ hand and went to his rooms to dress.

 

\--

 

ATHOS’ ROOMS

 _I refuse._ He said it as though he had any real choice; as if, despite all his protestations and his dread, he wouldn’t inevitably end up there, drawn to it and to her like the moon to the tide, inexorably and forever.

The last time, he had felt her presence everywhere; had almost smelled her in the ruins of his house, in the fields, even under that damned tree.

That tree was in every nightmare he had. He could describe it in almost perfect detail despite not having seen it for five years or more. Every gnarled twist of its trunk, every knot and every branch were etched indelibly onto his memory. Even the smell of its sap, and the creak of its branches in the wind, were something he would recall forever, all of it tied up with his wife and the terror on her face in the split second before he had turned from her pain and rode away like the coward he had never previously suspected he was. That expression of wide-eyed horror, that sudden understanding that he wasn’t going to spare her, haunted him more than anything else.

 _Especially if you believe that it was self-defence_.

He did. He had done since he had asked, since she had replied with something other than anger and sarcasm. He wished he had bothered to ask the first time, recalling now how callous and mean-spirited his brother could be when provoked, recalling how he had hesitated, had been rushed by

Catherine into doing his duty.

 

He hurled another bottle at his wall, then another, roaring in impotent fury. Duty. How _dare_ they write to him again? How dare they ask for his help, when he had done everything he could last time, when he told them he would not return? It was not his problem anymore. It hadn’t been his problem for years. He kicked over a table, sending more bottles skittering to the floor, shattering into shards of green as sharp as her eyes.

 

 _My wife is alive._ But Milady wasn’t his wife, was she? Whoever that woman had been, she was dead, no matter what Constance said. He had killed her, and whatever had been left had become Milady de Winter, cruel and murderous and always quicker on her feet than him.

And yet, in those last few months before the war, he had almost seen the woman he loved again, not just a painful shadow behind the eyes of a killer, but _her_ ; real and honest and vulnerable, offering him trust in a childlike, hesitant way that he didn’t quite know how to respond to.

 

“Are you coming?” Porthos yelled, hammering on his door with a boot, and Athos shrugged on his doublet, buckled on his belts, and left the mess of his rooms behind for another time.

 

\---

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                PINON

Milady no longer really suspected that Catherine had anything to do with the rumours regarding the Cardinal and Queen Regent; she had slipped through Pinon relatively unnoticed, listening and watching carefully for anything she could use against the bitch without luck. No, all that was happening here was a disillusioned, bitter woman railing against obscurity and poverty in the only way she knew how. Milady would almost feel sorry for her, if she hadn’t tried to hang her the last time they’d met. As it was, she took a little pleasure in watching her drive herself to further stupidity, her attempts to get the villagers on her side laughable and pathetic. She had managed to sway perhaps four men; with promises of sex or money, Milady assumed. She had also discovered, to her delight and slight irritation, that Athos had literally handed over the place to the people, in a sickeningly predictable, noble move that both amused and disgusted her.

It _was_ amusing, though, that Catherine had yet to accept this as fact, and was trying to lord it over the other villagers as though she had the right to it. Milady herself had more claim to the place than she did.

So she watched and she laughed, keeping herself hidden because who knew who would still recognise her, even after all these years, and though there was nothing of use to her here except a minor, failed uprising she should probably report but wouldn’t, she amused herself with Catherine for a few more days than necessary.

 

\---

 

 

TRAVELLING- OUTSIDE PINON

Athos pulled his horse up short, agitated. “We should stop for the night.”

“It’s barely afternoon,” d’Artagnan sighed, glancing at the sun and then at Athos. “There’s hours of sunlight left.”

Aramis pulled up his horse next to Athos, glancing at him. “We’re close, aren’t we.”

Athos nodded, the picture of misery, his eyes scanning the horizon. Porthos, a little ahead, turned back to them, frowning. “Why have we stopped?”

“Athos thinks we should stop for the night,” d’Artagnan replied with a shrug. Athos sat stubbornly silent in his saddle, unmoving.

Porthos looked as though he was about to say something, but one look at Aramis stopped him. He huffed instead, looking to d’Artagnan. “What do you say?”

“We should keep going,” he said with an apologetic glance at Athos. “There’s no cover here, and Pinon is less than an afternoon’s ride.”

“It’s two hours from here,” Athos said softly, not looking at him. Without speaking again, he spurred his horse onwards, riding ahead of them.

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing, making him come here again?” Porthos asked d’Artagnan.

“No,” he replied, shifting in his saddle guiltily. “I’m not. But they asked for help, Porthos-“

“I know, I know,” Porthos said. “We should help them. But for Athos-“

“Pinon is where he lost everything,” Aramis interjected, riding up beside them. “Every time we force him here, it’s like hell all over again.”

They fell silent, watching the figure of Athos riding in front of them, his head low and his pace barely above a crawl. “It’s not right,” Porthos said at length. No one disagreed.

 

Athos could almost _feel_ the damn place creeping up on him. It was like a cold shudder, starting at the base of his spine and refusing to dislodge itself, becoming more acute the closer he got. He hadn’t brought enough wine for this ridiculous trip they had been sent on; he had run out days ago, three- or four- shitty little villages back, and was becoming steadily more irritable about it now that he was facing the ruins of his past once again. Still, it was possibly for the best that he was sober, this time; he recalled the last time he had ended up there, drugged and hungover and feeling like he’d been thrown down a flight of stairs at the Louvre, round and round until he hit the wall at the bottom. Tied to a chair was among the worst ways to wake up anywhere, but it was especially galling _there._

He heard every word his friends said behind him but ignored them, lost in his own memories. He hadn’t been able to escape her last time, had felt her around him like a ghost. This time, he would not allow himself to behave in that way. He was there to talk sense into Catherine- another ghost from his damned past- and get out, forever this time. There would be no returning, no matter how many letters they sent to him under the misinformation he was still Captain.

_Should have just killed Catherine when you had the chance._

That wasn’t his voice. That was _hers_ , insinuating itself into his head. He wished he didn’t almost agree with it.  

 

\--

 

PINON

They rode in in the early evening, the sunlight deceptively peaceful and golden through the treeline. Several villagers stopped and stared as they passed, and Athos heard the whispered “It’s him! It’s the Comte-“

“He isn’t the Comte anymore-“

“It’s still him. He came!”

Everything looked quiet enough; Porthos kept an eye out for any trouble, taking up the rear, but he could only see people going about their business or staring in open mouthed awe at the Musketeers riding by. Porthos rather liked that, sitting up straighter in the saddle and assuming what he supposed was an air of calm nobility. He even smiled at a few people who looked his way.

 

Athos looked at no one, heading straight for the inn. He saw what the others did not; the subtle disarray of things, the tension in the air, the neglected look of a few buildings. It looked as though nothing had been achieved since he was last here.

He wondered how long Catherine had been stirring up trouble, trying- unsuccessfully, by the look of it- to do, what, exactly? He doubted it had anything to do with the arrests. Catherine wouldn’t care about that, too far out of her reach to be important. Perhaps she was merely trying to feel important again, regain a foothold in the nobility, have people to order around. Whatever it was, Athos was done with her.

 

He burst through the inn door without ceremony, stomping his way over to the innkeeper’s daughter, Jeanne . She looked up at him with shining hope in her eyes, and he grimaced to see it reflected in the people sitting at tables around the room.

“Why did you bring me here?” he said, louder than he should; she shrank back a little before lifting her chin defiantly. “We need you.”

“I told you,” he slammed a fist onto the bar. “I told you all I would _never_ be back here! I’m not the Comte anymore, I’m nothing to you people. Leave me be!”

Jeanne wrinkled her nose, about to say something scathing, but her father appeared from a doorway. “My lord!” he said, wonderingly. “You came!”

“Not through any choice of my own,” Athos grunted, glancing behind him where Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan stood. “I assure you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jeanne said. “You’re here now.”

“It would appear so. And on my feet, which is a step up from last time.” He didn’t even know he intended it as a joke until it came out of his mouth, a surprised silence greeting him for a long second until the innkeeper’s daughter started laughing and Athos managed a wry half smile in return.

“I promise, we won’t drug you this time,” she said, and he inclined his head.

“Very well. So, tell me what happened.”

“It’s Catherine,” Bertrand said, exasperation in every line of his face. “It was fine, after you left, my Lord-“

“I’m not your Lord.”

“-we managed as we had done, only things were easier because we were left alone, no pestering or anything. We thought she had gone, for a while- she disappeared without saying anything. But she came back, worse than ever, always trying to cause trouble, ordering us around, just like she was in charge and what not.”

“That sounds about right,” Athos said. “I fear her worsening may have been partly my fault.”

“Anyway, she tries to make us revolt or some such nonsense- against what, we don’t even know- but we go on ignoring her, trying to do our best, raise our families. Then she manages to get a few men on her side, bullies, the lot of them. They start enforcing her ‘laws’- horseshit, begging your pardon. They take some of our crops, they take the best part of our meat. She got them fixing up some of your old house so she could live there. She forces us to help with the labour- her men have horses and whips and they like to use them. It’s been like this for the better part of three years.”

“And you only thought to write to me now?”

“We tried,” Bertrand said. “We sent you letters, but you never answered. Then we got word that you were Captain of the Musketeers, so we sent a few letters there. This is the first time we even knew a letter had arrived with you.”

Athos thought of the pile of unanswered letters in his rooms with only a little guilt.

“I don’t know exactly what you think I can do,” he said finally. “I have no authority here anymore.”

“You’re all we have,” Jeanne said, before her father could reply. “You have to talk to her.”

“And if she won’t see reason?”

“Then don’t use reason.”

Athos glanced again to his friends, who nodded at him. With a sigh that was long-suffering and heavy, he nodded at the floor. “Alright. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank y-“

“Spare me your gratitude. I just want enough rooms for the four of us, and a hot meal. I’ll speak to her tomorrow.” He looked around the inn. “Not a word to her that we’re here, understand?”

Several people nodded back at them.

 _They’ll tell her before we’re even asleep,_ Athos thought to himself with satisfaction.

Frowning, he turned suddenly to the doorway as he felt a prickle on the back of his neck, a ghostly fingertip running across his skin, the faint scent of jasmine tantalising and otherworldly. No-one there, of course. Just his memory and his imagination working against him already.

“And four ales,” he added, to Porthos’ delight.

 

Aramis and Porthos took over a table beside the door, the original occupants getting up and making room for them without being asked.

“What do you think?” Porthos asked in a low voice.

“About Athos, or about Catherine?”

“Athos. Is he alright?”

Aramis looked over to where Athos was leaning against the bar, d’Artagnan stood close to him with his hand on Athos’ shoulder.

“I’m not sure,” he sighed, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. “It’s hard to tell with him, even when he isn’t miserable.”

“Not the most forthcoming man,” Porthos said with a hint of a smile.

“Like talking to a wall,” Aramis agreed.

They grinned at each other for a moment.

“Still,” Aramis continued, replacing his hat, “It seems like a quick enough job. Have a word with this woman and carry on our way.”

“I dunno,” Porthos shrugged. “Last time, we ended up in a siege with a bunch of farmers.”

“Porthos,” Aramis said, mock wounded, “I was there too. Surely that counts for something.”

“A bunch of farmers and a monk,” Porthos corrected as Athos and d’Artagnan joined them with the ales.

“Ex monk.” Aramis took a drink with a stern look at Porthos that just made the big man laugh.

Athos gave them a fond and tolerant glance as he sat down, leaning forward so they could speak freely.

“We have two rooms. It’s two beds to a room, but apparently they’re clean enough. Tomorrow, we ride to the house, if she hasn’t already heard about us. I’ll speak to her; see if she will listen to reason. If necessary, I’ll threaten her with the law. You keep watch for her men- make sure they don’t cause trouble while we speak. Then we can leave and never come back.” Athos took a swallow of his ale, raising his eyebrows at his friends. “Any questions?”

“And if she refuses?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Then we’ll drag her back to Paris kicking and screaming and let her rot in a prison for a while,” he shrugged. “She’s caused enough trouble for us to put _something_ on her.”

The others nodded, satisfied.

“Where’s that food?” Porthos grumbled. “I’m starving.”

 

\--

 

PINON

_What is he doing here?_

Her first thought had been nothing but blind, utter panic; she had all but ran out of the door, slipping behind Porthos as quietly as she could, turning back only on the threshold to stare at him with wide eyes. Her heart leapt, and then lurched sickeningly, breathing suddenly too difficult. The whole world seemed to have narrowed to him, that familiar, slouching figure propped up against the bar as though he had never left, that voice which sent shivers through her. 

He was supposed to be gone; far off in some happily-ever-after with his new woman, babies at his feet. Why was he _here,_ of all places?

She realised on the heels of that question that he was in uniform. He was back in Paris, then, with the Musketeers- how long had he been there without her noticing?

She was irritated by not knowing even in the midst of her confusion and panic; surely she should have seen him, heard of his return. She prided herself on _knowing_ things, after all.

But no matter. She had the advantage; she now knew he was here, and he had no idea, hopefully.

 

Once she was out of the inn and safely out of sight, her thoughts calmed enough to be reasonable. He was likely here for Catherine; she had been making enough of a mess of things in Pinon for him to have found out somehow. But why had he gone back to Paris in the first place? Why wasn’t he with _her_?

He had chosen Sylvie, after all, clearly and easily, as it seemed to Milady. Had run off to save her from a little flogging, leaving his _wife_ behind like dust in the road.

 

She locked herself into the abandoned house she had been occupying, closing the shutters and sitting on the one remaining chair, deep in thought. The logical explanation, of course, was that they were both living in Paris; had decided to make a life there, for whatever reason.

The less likely idea, and the most interesting, was that somewhere along the way, things had turned sour between Athos and Sylvie, and he had come back to the Musketeers with his tail between his legs like a whipped puppy.

She secretly hoped it was the second, relishing the thought of his fairy-tale ending going to hell just like hers had, all those years ago when she thought she might have been able to be someone new, someone who was good enough for Athos.

 _Sentiment_ , she thought, disgusted. She peered through the shutters warily, checking she hadn’t been seen, and then settled back into the chair, idly touching her choker.

This changed everything. If he was here to confront Catherine, she _definitely_ wanted to see it. She smiled to herself, satisfied. This would be fun. Catherine deserved whatever she got, as far as Milady was concerned.

 

\--

 

PINON- MORNING

The room had been somewhat cramped, but perfectly serviceable. D’Artagnan and Athos had shared one room, Aramis and Porthos the other. The beds were narrow but clean enough, and there was a basin of water and a jug to wash in. Athos couldn’t complain, considering he’d been riding for days in the same clothes and felt filthy beyond belief. D’Artagnan didn’t snore, either- he could hear Porthos through the wall and felt sorry for Aramis’ ears- so he counted himself lucky and got a restless but relatively comfortable few hours sleep between the bad dreams and the unfamiliar surroundings.

 

The morning was cold and clear, sunlight streaming through the windows early. Athos awoke groggily, squinting in the light and rolling himself up into a sitting position without speaking. He hung his head, groaning heavily, and sat there for a few minutes, unmoving. He could hear d’Artagnan behind him, dressing, and ignored him. It was far too early to be talking to anyone. Especially when he was sober.

 

D’Artagnan splashed himself with water, vigorously, and then, glancing at Athos, lifted the jug and quietly walked up behind him. He raised the jug of water above his head and was about to tip it out when Athos said, distinctly and shortly, “Do you value your life?”

“Spoilsport,” d’Artagnan huffed, putting the jug back and pulling on his doublet.

Athos grunted and stood, stretching saddle-stiff muscles and attempting to blink sleep out of his eyes. He was grateful to be staying in this place; it was far enough from the house to allow him to almost forget where he was for a moment here or there, a sweet, if brief, spot of relief.

It came crashing back around him, of course, and with a weary sigh, he washed himself and dressed.

“Let’s go.”

 

“Are you two ready?” came the inevitably loud voice of Porthos outside, accompanied by a sold kick to the door.

“Coming,” d’Artagnan called, buckling on his belts. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” Porthos said with a grin. Aramis gave d’Artagnan a look with a gesture that was definitely a mime of him shooting himself in the head, and even Athos had to bite back a smirk.

 

They left the inn in a group, Athos leading and shielding his face against the light.  The ride to the house would be a short one, and the sooner they got on with it, the sooner they could leave. Athos was already sick of being here, sick of the constant feeling of being watched, the barrage of memories assaulting him at every turn. She hadn’t even been here for over nine years, and he saw her face in every shadow. It was painful and awful and he wanted it to stop as soon as possible.

 

“Athos.”

Catherine stood in the square, her bodyguards stood around her like she was their general; all big, stupid looking men with more muscle than brains. She looked like she had achieved a great victory, her chin high and defiant, her eyes flashing. She wore an old pistol and a battered sword at her waist, at odds with the fine, expensive looking dress she was wearing and the delicate way her hair was piled on her head. Athos stopped ten paces from her, scowling at her without pretence. Porthos, d’Artagnan, and Aramis fanned out beside him as if on some silent cue.

“Catherine,” Athos said curtly, his eyes shifting between her and her men, “What is this nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” she scoffed. “I simply require what is rightfully mine- what you _should_ have left me with the last time.”

“I shared the land between you all,” he said patiently, shifting his feet. “I gave no one the advantage.”

“Exactly,” she hissed, not even bothering to pretend that she was anything other than angry. “I am of noble blood, Athos. I am not made to live like these disease riddled peasants of yours, in their filth and their ignorance.”

A crowd was beginning to form around the square, people whispering and nudging each other. Looking now, Athos could see that they looked half-starved, thin and shaky.

“Is this your doing?” he asked her, furious, pointing around him. “You steal their food for your own purposes?”

“It is my due,” she said.

“It belongs to you _all!_ ” he roared, staring at her. “I made it perfectly clear!”

“You made it perfectly clear that you care more about your _whore_ of a wife than you do me,” she said viciously, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “You humiliated me, Athos. How dare she live, after all that she did, after she _ruined_ me-“

 _Is this what this is all about?_ Athos wondered suddenly. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she would hold his former people accountable for his actions regarding Milady- certainly not like this. _Is she really so spiteful as to ruin all of these people just to drag me back here?_

Perhaps it was partly that; but he suspected her other reasons were just as valid, in her own mind.

_She forced me to act hastily. She never even entertained the idea that my wife might have been telling the truth about Thomas. Perhaps she knew that she wasn’t lying, after all._

 

“Your selfishness is a disgrace,” he said instead. “These people are innocent; they have done nothing to harm you.”

“But you have. You chose her over me. We should have been _married,_ Athos!”

“You keep saying that as though it were inevitable!” he said, really fuming now and pointing at her, his eyes wild and his breathing hard. “As if we were madly in love and she came between us.”

Catherine said nothing, looking confused and betrayed, and Athos had the sudden realisation that perhaps she had assumed he did love her. He decided to twist the knife, hoping that it would be the end of her stupidity.

“But I didn’t _love you,”_ he spat, teeth bared. “We were _friends,_ Catherine!” Catherine staggered back, pale and open-mouthed with anger.

“I didn’t love you,” he said again, quietly, forcing himself to get back in control. “And these people are no worse than you. You may leave if you wish, but you will _not_ stay here and terrorise them any longer, or I swear we will drag you back to Paris behind our horses and have you arrested for whatever we can think of.”

 

“You pretend you don’t love her still,” Catherine said, unsheathing her sword with a shaking hand. “But it’s written all over that sad face of yours. I saw it when you saved her, years ago, and it’s _still_ there now.” She advanced on him with sword raised. “I’ll kill you.”

Her bodyguards spread out to allow her to pass, and Athos saw his friends unsheathe their own weapons and prepare to defend themselves. He waited for another few seconds before reluctantly drawing his sword. “This is madness, Catherine.”

“I’m not mad,” she said, unblinking, closing in on him. “I just want what I’m owed.”

She lunged at him, and he knocked the blade away easily, but she came back again, viciously, forcing him to defend properly, the clang of metal loud and jarring. Athos heard the others fighting her men but ignored them, watching Catherine warily as they circled each other. She came at him again, a low jab followed by a competent series of thrusts and parries that he had to work to deflect. He had underestimated her; he would not do so again. He didn’t want to actually _hurt_ her, though- it would be another weight on his soul that he could not bear- and so he merely defended himself, again and again, her attacks becoming more erratic as she lost her temper with him. “Fight me!” she said, breathless. “Is it because I’m a woman?”

“It is because you were my friend,” he answered, blocking her sword and pushing her back with one hand. She staggered for a moment, caught herself, and threw her whole body into another series of savage attacks, their swords flashing in the morning sun as Athos ducked and sidestepped and twisted his way out of each blow. He could defeat her, easily, but attempting to not hurt her was difficult when she gave him no quarter.

He pushed her back again, and again she lunged for him, nicking his shoulder with the point of her blade. He grimaced and said nothing, slapping her with the flat of his sword when she left herself open, a sharp sting and a warning, but no real damage. She screamed in rage and humiliation, her anger her downfall as she attacked with no thought or planning, swinging her sword wildly and with murderous intent in her eyes. Athos deflected easily, stepped forward into the gap in her defence, and shoved her back with his foot hard enough that she fell backwards onto the dirt, her chest heaving. He placed the tip of his blade at her throat, warningly. Aramis, d’Artagnan and Porthos had defeated their men, all either wounded or disarmed, and stood awkwardly in a group with pistols pointed at them.

 

“Enough.” It was the second time in recent years that he had her at his mercy. She clearly hadn’t listened the first time. Perhaps she would be more willing now, without his wife in sight of her.

“You understand?” he asked. “No more. Either live quietly here, or leave. I will not tolerate you dragging me here again.”

“You’re pathetic,” she said instead. “I should have left you hanging all those years ago when you first came back here.”

Athos shrugged and sheathed his sword, turning from her silently and walking towards his friends.

 

“Athos!” D’Artagnan shouted, warning, and Athos twisted to the side just in time to see a crossbow bolt fly past his head and thud into Catherine’s throat with a sickening snapping noise. She tried to speak, blood foaming over her lips and spouting from her neck in a bright fountain of gore, and fell to her knees. Athos saw the knife he did not know she had fall from her spasming hand and into the dirt, and understood that she had meant to kill him, after all.

He watched helplessly as she fell back, twitching and gurgling, a pool of her blood spreading out underneath her as she bled to death. It was slow and disgusting, her breath making blood squeeze out of the wound in rhythmic little pulses, until she jerked no more and was still. He stood impassively for a moment, reaching inside him for something other than pity for the woman he remembered from his youth and a vague sense of relief, and failing.

 

Confused, he turned back to his friends, frowning. “Which of you-?”

They all shook their heads, shrugging, looking as bewildered as him. He cast his gaze around them with a strange sense of unease.

 

And then the bottom fell out of his world again as she stepped out from behind a stack of barrels, crossbow in hand. He could feel his heart thudding, could hear the roar of his blood in his ears like the beat of a war drum driving him mad, everything else dulling in comparison to her.

He was walking towards her before he even felt his feet moving, his hand outstretched, reaching for her without his permission. She stood still, allowing him to approach, warily eyeing him as though afraid of him, though he didn’t know why-

 _I choked her, the last time we met, I kissed her and then I tried to choke her-_ he thought suddenly, guiltily, and his steps slowed and halted, stopping him a mere four

feet from her, his arms falling to his sides uselessly. He could _smell_ her, God it was so familiar, so intoxicating- he allowed himself a moment of agonising bliss as he just inhaled, his eyes drinking her in like she was rain in a desert.

 

“You-“ he said at length, awkwardly.

“Me,” she said with a sarcastic smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

“Yes.” He glanced back at Catherine’s body. He paused, groping for the right response.

 “Thank you.” The words felt strange to him; even stranger to be coming out here, with her, in this place. She blinked at him as though she hadn’t expected thanks, and he watched her posture relax a little, her guarded expression falling away ever so slightly – probably unnoticeable to anyone else, a slight turning up of her lips, a softer look to her eyes, a tilt to her head like a bird.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to look anywhere except her eyes but getting drawn back into her gaze again and again.

“I’m not here for you,” she said with a laugh. “Strictly business, I’m afraid.”

“Was she business?” Athos said, pointing at Catherine.

“In a manner of speaking.”

He nodded to himself, looked down at his feet. So she was still an assassin, after all. He had thought, perhaps-

“I was _spying_ on her,” Milady said, slightly exasperated as though reading his thoughts. “I wasn’t going to kill her.”

“But-“

“As much as you are a regular disappointment to me, Athos, I did not wish to see you stabbed in the back by a woman I hate.”

Athos huffed out a breath, blinking. This was familiar territory, the sniping at each other without giving anything of themselves; it was almost comforting. “And if you had missed?”

“Then it would be better than you deserved.”

 

Tentatively, her hand moved to his face, gentle fingertips stroking along the curve of his jaw as if to take away the sting of her words. Her gloves smelled like leather and perfume, warm against his skin, and he leaned into her touch for just a moment, desperate for the contact, his eyes half closing.

He reached for her blindly, curling his fingers around the back of her neck, and then remembered his hands closing around her throat in fury, remembered the rope sliding onto her neck, remembered everything all at once and it was too much. He jerked back, breathing hard. “I can’t-“ he said brokenly, staggering backwards and shaking his head. He turned clumsily, and jumped onto his horse, galloping off wildly across the fields with no conscious idea of his destination and leaving his friends and Milady de Winter standing in confusion.

 

\--

 

She hadn’t even known she was going to kill Catherine right until the crossbow was up at her shoulder and she was aiming down the sight. Until then, she had merely been a spectator, amused and more than a little excited. She felt sure Athos wouldn’t kill her; knew his _honour_ would keep him from murdering a lady- _hah_ \- but nonetheless, she relished seeing Catherine in trouble.

It was only when he turned away, and she saw the knife glinting in Catherine’s hand, that her body moved automatically, her stance shifting so she had a clear aim. She didn’t even hesitate; one moment she was enjoying the show, the next the bolt was lodged in Catherine’s throat, blood spraying the ground.

There was a satisfaction she expected with this death in particular, some kind of revenge, perhaps, but all she felt was relief-and disdain at a woman who didn’t know when she was defeated.

 

Her entrance had been planned in advance; she made sure she had worn the only other dress she had brought with her, a deep green silk with embroidered flowers on the bodice, and she appeared in his line of sight with as much coolness as she could manage despite the fact that her heart was beating rabbit-fast and her skin prickled at the nearness of him.

She was wary, too; she had no idea how he would react after the last time, after he had changed so suddenly from passionate to savage. That had frightened her, as much as she hated to admit it- he was usually so predictable and pathetic.

So she went for defensive, and was surprised into relinquishing that defence by his gentleness, his awkward response to her touch and his own reaching out to her. She hated herself for being so easy to break through, but it was _him_ , always him who managed it, no one else, and that made it both easier to bear and much, much worse.

Something had changed, though; his face had gone suddenly pale and shaky, his eyes wild, and he had done what he always did and ran away, abandoning her to his own cowardice and leaving her stood silently in the square with three Musketeers and a dead body.

_Not this time, Athos._ This time, she would not allow him to escape the consequences of his actions.

“I need your horse,” she told Aramis, her own still hidden near the house she was staying in. Without a word, he looked to Porthos and d’Artagnan with raised eyebrows, and then handed over the reins.

“I’m not going to steal it,” she said shortly, waiting to be helped up into the saddle. Aramis obliged courteously, nonplussed, and she dug the heels of her boots into the gelding, urging him on. She knew exactly where Athos would go, if she knew him at all.

 

\--

 

His traitorous heart led him right back to that tree, the tree that haunted him as much as what he had done there. It stood alone on the hill, only a short distance from the wreckage of his old house, silent and judgemental.

 _Of course_ , he thought miserably, sliding off his horse and walking to it as though in a dream, his feet stumbling in the long grass. _Of course I’d end up here again._

He leaned his forehead against the rough bark, closing his eyes, and let out a long, shuddering breath.

_Her dress was white, the flowers clutched defiantly in her hand the brightest blue he had ever imagined._

He tried to shut out the memory.

_The sound of the priest murmuring his rites. The rope, creaking as it took her weight. The shocked gasp of her breath being cut off before he turned away._

He gritted his teeth, and inhaled. The sweet grass was heady and warm-scented, the tree itself solid and alive under his touch. It grounded him a little, forcing him to remember without losing himself. He had been running for so long- destroying his mind in a haze of wine and denial, assuming he had been right because the alternative was far too terrible to contemplate- and now that he could no longer assume anything other than the alternative, he was running again.

 

She found him still there, with his head against the tree where he’d hanged her as though praying to it, and felt an inexplicable rush of pity for him, for how small he looked and how utterly predictable he had been in coming here, determined to return to the scene of the crime and hate himself further. She had been ready to spit insults at him, to throw barbed comments and remind him of his wretchedness.

 

He felt her touch his shoulder, heard her say his name with an undefinable quality to it that made him shiver, turning to face her and finding her much nearer than he had anticipated. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, caressing the leather of his doublet absently, her gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips. There was a moment of silence between them that hung like her scent in the air, her lips slightly parted, her breathing quick and shallow; and then it was broken by him, reaching out to brush a thumb over her bottom lip, gently and wonderingly and delighted by the way she half-closed her eyes and leaned into him as though she had been waiting for him to just bridge the gap between them forever. Her other arm reached up, snaking around his neck, and he surged forward with sudden desperation, pulling her roughly to him and crushing his lips to hers in a hard, needy kiss. She pushed him, his back hitting the trunk of the tree, and leaned her weight against him, trapping him between her and the bark.

It was overwhelming; familiar and new all at once, the warm press of her body against his driving him mad, her hair soft against his face, his neck, her breath warm on his cheek. His whole world was this kiss; the feel of her under his clutching hands, her needy little gasps for breath between kisses and her complete abandonment to the moment. He took advantage of this, turning them so that she was the one pressed against the tree, her laugh coming out in a surprised rush of air before he kissed her again.

 

That laugh was his undoing; it rushed him back to when they were just married, when their days were a haze of laughter and smiles and lovemaking, perpetually sunny in his mind and with nothing more complicated than their love to trouble him.  With a narrow-eyed glance into her eyes that made her flush, he pulled her gently down into the grass with him, sending a cloud of sweet smelling dandelion seeds spiralling into the breeze above them. She paused, pulling back with a questioning look.

 _Sunlight and a warm breeze and playing, running through the fields with me, tugging at my dress and that smile- that smile could have killed me as surely as the rope did. S_ he saw from his face that he was remembering it too, was lost in the memory of those moments they shared, could feel him hard against her thigh and thrilled with the knowledge that it was for her-

 _It always has been her, all these years-_ he thought with guilty desperation, lowering his head to kiss her again, gently and frowning with the strangeness of it after so long, and she arched up to meet him, her face open and innocent like he recalled it in his mind’s eye-

_Her eyes were always so wide and clear, I believed her so easily-_

_Does he know I never lied about loving him? Not after the first time-_

His fingers wandered to her throat, to the scar she still covered, the scar that he had inflicted on her, wanting to smooth it out into how it was before. But she flinched a little, her hand automatically going to her neck in a protective gesture. He frowned. “I won’t hurt you.”

And then the knowledge of where they were sunk in properly for the first time, under the tree where he had tried to kill her, had rode off without a word of comfort, too cowardly to see his orders carried out. This place that had been the end of them, the end of everything. It was too much, this feeling and this tenderness _here_ , and he staggered to his feet as if shaking off a daydream, still gasping for breath, his hair wild and in his eyes. She sat up slowly, as if dazed herself. “A little late for that, don’t you think?” she replied with no real malice.

“I should go. The others-” He turned to his horse, dragging himself into the saddle and moving to leave.

“Don’t you dare abandon me here again!” she ordered with a tremulous note to her voice, a rising panic in her throat despite knowing her horse was right there. “Not again, Athos.”

He paused, his heels ready to spur his horse, and turned his head half towards her, looking askance at her warily.

“Come on, then.”

 _He’s not leaving without me,_ she thought incredulously. _He actually waited._

 With as much imperious dignity as she could manage, she dusted off her dress and stalked over to the horse she had borrowed from Aramis, standing beside it pointedly.

Athos sighed, sliding out of the saddle and walking over to give her a hand onto the horse. He didn’t meet her eyes, unable to deal with whatever was in them, and as soon as she was seated he returned to his own mount, digging in his heels and riding off at a canter. She followed, catching him up and riding beside him in silence for a few minutes, glancing at him sideways every so often and seeing him deep in thought.

“So,” she said at length, trying to look uninterested, “I heard you’re back in Paris?”

“Mmm,” he said, shrugging. She pressed on.

“And you’re back with the Musketeers, of course.”

“Yes.”

“At the garrison?”

He looked over at her quickly, his face like thunder, and she attempted an innocent face. “Yes. Why?”

“I haven’t seen you.” _I need to know if you’re alone or still with her. If she’s here, why did you kiss me. If she’s not, why did you stop?_

He grunted. “I imagine your _work_ keeps you busy.”

“You know, I’m on the same side as you,” she said, irritated. He barked out a mirthless laugh.

“I don’t doubt that you’re on whatever side is winning, _Milady.”_

“I work for the Queen Regent.” She watched the knowledge sink in, his eyes narrowing as he turned in the saddle to look at her.

“You’re lying.”

“Do sing another tune, Athos,” she sighed. “I’m not lying.” She took the list of names and places out from her dress, signed by the Queen and bearing her seal, and handed it over. He took it and read it without seeing anything except the signature, blinking at it as though he was dreaming.

He gave it back to her silently, and she tucked it away out of sight with a small degree of smugness.

 

 

\---

 

PINON- SQUARE

The others were still in the square when they rode back in, side by side and in a relatively comfortable silence. They watched curiously as Milady slid from the saddle, handing the reins back to Aramis with a challenging look as though daring him to say anything.

“Thank you,” he said, surprised into taking them from her obediently. He looked to Porthos with an amused grin, but Porthos just shrugged, nonplussed.

Athos watched her as she left them to collect her own horse and her belongings, unwilling to meet his friend’s eyes in case he found ridicule or worse in them.

Eventually, she was out of sight, and so with a deep breath he got down from his horse, waiting a beat before turning to the others.

“Not a word,” he said pre-emptively, and they all raised their hands or shrugged in surrender. He nodded, looking between them without making eye contact, not knowing how it was he felt right now. His heart was still racing, his thoughts confused. But there was a strange, long-buried sense of something slotting back into place, something feeling a little less broken, and he didn’t know whether it was finally ending his need to be in Pinon for good, or whether it was her.

 

\--

 

“You’re still here,” Bertrand said breathlessly, scurrying towards them awkwardly. “I wanted to thank you, My L- Athos, for what you did.”

“I did nothing,” he shrugged. “It’s her you should be thanking.”

Milady was walking back towards them, leading her horse by the reins. She stopped, looking between Athos and Bertrand nervously. She hadn’t wanted to be seen, in case she was recognised, and here Athos was pointing her out to the damn innkeeper like a fool. Still, she continued on sedately, not looking around. Bertrand squinted at her, clearly recognising her from somewhere.

“Do I know you, Madame?” he said cautiously.

“Milady de Winter,” she said smoothly. “I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure.” _And let’s keep it that way._

“Then, Milady, we owe you a debt of thanks,” he said with a stiff bow, still frowning at her. She lifted the hood on her cloak quickly, smiling at him graciously.

“No need,” she offered, turning and giving Athos a scathing look before leading her horse over to the others.

 

“I will not return,” Athos said to Bertrand after a pause. “And this time, I mean it.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Do not write to me again.”

Bertrand nodded. “I understand.”

“Goodbye then,” Athos said with a curt nod, turning to his friends. They led their horses out of the square in silence.

 

“Where will you go?” Athos asked Milady quietly, not looking at her.

“I still have work to do,” she answered, surprised. “I suppose I shall do that.”

Athos grunted, stopping a little behind the others and taking in a deep breath before turning to her, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“We’re going back to Paris.” He wasn’t sure why he told her that; why he felt the need to say anything, in fact, but it seemed important suddenly.

“I’ll see you there, no doubt,” Milady said with the ghost of a smile. “We do seem to be incapable of avoiding each other.”

Athos helped her onto her horse thoughtfully. “So it seems.” He looked up at her, their eyes meeting, and he found he could manage a smile; a little bitter, a little stiff on his face, but a smile nonetheless. He nodded. “Stay safe.”

 

 

An overwhelming rush of emotion  washed over Milady; she could feel her face flush like a maiden, and it was disgusting, too much to deal with at once. He said it as though he cared, as though he hadn’t left her standing in his office to chase his dream woman, as though nothing had passed between them except a little argument. She had no way of processing it, no way of allowing the sentiment to pierce her without bleeding out, and so she wheeled her horse and galloped off, hard, leaving him behind in the dust.

_He didn’t tell me he’d kill me if he saw me in Paris._

He didn’t tell her to avoid him, to ignore him, to never show her face to him again. He hadn’t said anything, in fact, other than offering her where he would be.

It made her chest ache and her eyes prickle, not knowing why she cared after everything but knowing that they were still irrevocably tied together somehow.

 

\---

 

GARRISON- EVENING

“Can we join you?” Aramis asked, sliding onto the bench opposite Athos without waiting for a reply. Porthos joined him, and then d’Artagnan sat beside Athos. He glanced around at them with a mildly amused expression, drawling, “No please, do all take a seat,” in tolerant exasperation.

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked, pouring himself some wine. Athos stared at his glass for a moment, thinking.

“I got a letter from Sylvie,” he said instead, gesturing to the paper on the table.

“May I?” d’Artagnan asked, and Athos nodded with a wave of his hand.

 

_Athos_

_Isabelle is well. The money will be put aside for her future, as will any more you send to me. I did not expect you to return to me, and do not hate you for it; you must do as your honour dictates, after all. I know that for you, duty comes before everything. I wish it could have been different, that I could have been a Musketeer’s wife, but it was not to be. I bear you no ill will._

_You still love your wife. You may deny it- and I believe you do not know it yourself, Athos, so can hardly blame you for it- but I saw it in your eyes. You should have told me about her. You hurt me in trying to protect yourself, her- and me, I know, but I deserved better from you. I thought you were an honest man. I forgive you for not knowing yourself well enough to spare me._

_I doubt that I shall have cause to visit Paris. However, you are welcome to visit your daughter as you wish, and you will not find me obstructing you._

_Sylvie_

D’Artagnan dropped the letter and glanced at Athos. “That seems better than it could have been.”

“I know.” _She forgives me. How many people will I leave in my wake, offering me forgiveness as I leave them nothing?_

“But you’re drinking.”

Athos shot him a look that was verging on withering, taking a long swallow from the bottle.

“Is it her? Milady?” d’Artagnan pressed, looking concerned. “Is she a threat?”

He smiled to himself without amusement. “I don’t think so. Not this time.” Glancing at Aramis, he asked, “Did you know she’s working for the Queen Regent?”

Aramis’ shocked expression gave him the answer, and he nodded.

“I didn’t even know she was in Paris,” Aramis said after a moment. “I swear it, Athos.”

“I believe you.”

“So she’s on our side?” Porthos asked, looking around the table. “Is that it?”

“For the moment.” Athos glanced up to Porthos questioningly. Porthos just shrugged.

“Fair enough.”

“We can’t trust her,” d’Artagnan protested. “How do we even know she’s telling us the truth?”

“I never said anything about trusting her,” Athos said patiently. “But I believe she is being truthful for the moment. She showed me proof.” He looked to Aramis. “Can you check the Louvre for anything that would confirm it absolutely?” Aramis nodded. “I have to be sure.” _If she’s really on our side, perhaps she hasn’t gone back to her old habits as badly as I’d feared. Perhaps-_

“Of course.”

"And there's a favour I need to ask you, Aramis. I'll tell you later." Aramis nodded.  _For Constance._

“So what now?” Porthos asked.

“We drink,” Athos replied with a dry smile. “Since you’re here, Porthos, you can go and fetch us some more wine.”

Porthos grumbled but obliged, and Athos allowed himself to relax a little, knowing he had a few hours at least before he was dragged out on another job.

He was saddle sore and exhausted, drained emotionally, and confused; but he still felt more settled than he had done in months, glancing fondly around at his friends as they laughed and leaning on his elbows to join in the conversation with brief, wry humour.

 

 

\----

 


	4. EPISODE FOUR: "HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, spoilers apply and all historical liberties are my own fault.  
> This is a mostly-Aramis centric episode, hope you like. Plot continues this episode.

EPISODE FOUR: HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF

 

LOUVRE

“Condé comes and goes as he pleases,” Mazarin said in a low voice to Aramis, “And her Majesty allows it- she doesn’t even question him. He’s been doing this for weeks.”

Aramis frowned, eyeing the Cardinal speculatively. On one hand, he too suspected the Prince of being up to _something_ unsavoury; on the other, he didn’t much like Mazarin for his own, much more personal reasons.

“When was the last time you saw him?” he asked.

“He left yesterday morning, early. Just after dawn, in fact. I haven’t seen him since then.”

“But the city is rioting again. It’s barely been a month since the last time.” _And he has conveniently disappeared._

Mazarin nodded. He looked exhausted, and Aramis felt a brief flash of pity for him.

“It seems to be worse than the last time. We have lost some supporters- there are nobles involving themselves, _nobles!-_ barricades in the streets again; it’s as if we’re under siege.”

Aramis ran a hand over his face tiredly. “Trust me, this is no siege- you’ll know a siege when you see one. Nobles, you say?”

“Not many as of yet, but I fear we are losing support for the Crown at a pace we cannot hope to stop unless we get our troops back.”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen for a while yet,” Aramis sighed. “I heard that there’s a treaty of some sort-“

“The Declaration of October, yes-“

“But that could take…what, months?”

“Perhaps.”

Aramis nodded. “Fine. I’m sure the Musketeers can do something to stop the unrest. I trust her Majesty and the King will remain here for now?”

“Her Majesty believes it would be best.”

“I think it would be better if she, the King, and yourself left Paris for the moment.”

“She would never agree to that unless there was no choice.”

Aramis nodded thoughtfully. “We shall hope it doesn’t come to that, then. I should go.”

“Take care.”

Aramis felt that he still had the information in his pocket that Athos had required, bowed shortly, and left for the garrison. He might not like Mazarin, but at least he was loyal.

 

\--

 

GARRISON

Aramis found the garrison in chaos, several injured men already laid out on tables with Constance and that doctor of hers- Blanchett? Blanchard, that was it- busy attending to them. He spotted Elodie running past with a pile of linen, and dismounted quickly.

“Can I help?” he asked Constance, rolling up his sleeves.

“You can bring me hot water,” she said without looking up, and he went to oblige.

Constance took it from him with a tired smile and began cleaning the wounds of the man she was dealing with. He looked fine except for a ragged wound on his knee, and she bound it efficiently before turning to Aramis properly.

“They’ve all left,” she said when he enquired about the others. “There are barricades again. Most of the Musketeers are out except me, Elodie, and this lot.” She gestured to the injured with a weary glance.

“And you look as though you’re doing just fine,” Aramis said reassuringly. “Do you know where it is they went?”

“Athos and d’Artagnan are trying to round up ringleaders and arrest them. Porthos took Brujon and went with a group of men to do the same but with what I can only describe as more violence.”

Aramis smiled despite himself, and Constance returned it with an eye roll.

“That sounds about right.”

“Porthos said he would start over by the Bastille and work his way around, if that helps.”

“It does. “ He nodded respectfully. “Thank you, Constance. If I can be of no further assistance?”

“Go,” she said, waving him off. “You’ll be more use out there.” She stopped him before he could get back on his horse, pointing a finger at him. “Make sure you tell them to bring _any_ injured back to me, you hear?” she said sternly. “Not like last time.”

“Of course,” he said, inclining his head and turning his horse.

 

\---

 

LOUVRE

“What do you have to say about these?”

Milady stepped forward cautiously, glancing down at a piece of paper on the Queen’s desk. She was tired, having only arrived back in Paris the night before from her surveillance mission, and had found the summons to the Louvre waiting for her, unwelcome and irritating. She had kept Anne waiting overnight, though; she was not about to go running like a faithful hound as soon as she was called.

Her lip twitched in a quickly suppressed smirk as she looked at the pamphlet. It depicted a poorly proportioned but very recognisable Queen Regent, locked in an embrace with the Cardinal and with a delightfully lewd story about their supposed affair underneath. It went on to question many of Mazarin’s personal virtues, his parentage and his motivation, as well as his grooming habits and other such low insults including “foreign rogue” and “only fit to be hung”.

It looked hurriedly and poorly printed.

“I have not seen them, Your Majesty,” Milady replied, honestly enough. She had barely had time to _sleep_ on her return, let alone traipse across Paris looking for reading material.

“These have been found all over the city,” Anne said in a trembling voice. “Hundreds of them. I hired you to _stop_ these rumours from becoming this serious!”

“Your Majesty,” Milady said, straightening again and folding her hands in front of her, “I must remind you that I was not even in Paris until last night. I couldn’t possibly have known-“

“What am I paying you for? You should have been _investigating_ who started these rumours, not trotting around the countryside-“

“With respect, I was merely following the instructions given to me.” Milady could feel her temper fraying. She squeezed the fingers of her left hand with her right, resisting the urge to touch her choker.

“I will waste no time in tracking down the source of these- _disgusting-_ lies.” She managed to keep her face impassive, despite the amusement she felt at the crudely drawn picture. “If your Majesty wishes, I will eradicate those responsible.” Her reassurances seemed to set the Queen Regent at ease, exactly as Milady had hoped, and she leaned back a little in her chair, her severe expression softening slightly.

“Very good,” she said with a deep breath. “I do not wish to know what you do with them, just _stop_ this slander. I will pay you double.” Her eyes slid from Milady to the paper on her desk again, her expression dismayed and her cheeks flushed. “After you inform me that they have been…dealt with.”

“Your Majesty,” Milady asked confidentially, leaning in a little, “Between you and me- there is no substance to the rumours, is there? Of course, I do not judge you- I merely require as much information as-“

“Of course not!” she said hotly, flushing even more. _“Leave me!”_ Her hands shook as Milady turned to leave the room, thoughtful. She would find out who was distributing these pamphlets, and who was responsible for creating them; but she would rather enjoy delaying it a little.

\--

 

PARIS STREETS

Aramis found Porthos, Brujon and the rest of their group engaged in a brutal, brawling fight with a group of men armed with pitchforks and pistols. It was over shortly after Aramis arrived, Porthos hauling a man who Aramis assumed was the leader over to Brujon, who bound his wrists and ordered a couple of cadets  to take him to the nearest prison.

“Aramis!” Porthos boomed above the general noise, coming over to give Aramis a hug. “You’re here.”

“As if I’d miss all the fun,” Aramis smiled when they parted. “I am at your disposal, my friend.”

“Good,” Porthos said with a glance to his men. “We’re having a spot of trouble with the locals.”

“I can see that. The Cardinal is a little worried that some nobles might be stirring things further?”

“Not that I’ve seen yet,” he grunted, getting back onto his horse. “Just a bunch of angry people, though none of them seem to really know why.”

“You haven’t seen the Prince of Condé, have you?”

“Nah. He wouldn’t show his face around here.”

Aramis got into the saddle and rode beside Porthos. “I fear for the safety of the Queen Regent and the young King,” he admitted as they trotted through the streets looking for more trouble. “If this continues-“

“Well, we don’t have enough men to finish the job,” Porthos interrupted. “Half of the cadets who are out now are still sore from the last time.” He looked gloomy. “I didn’t even finish my breakfast this morning.”

Aramis sighed and shook his head in exasperation as Porthos’ priorities. “Well, that’s a real tragedy.”

“I know. Here, look.” He nodded his head towards a hastily built barricade across the next street.

They dismounted and approached it cautiously.

When they were about twenty paces from it, a pistol shot rang out and Porthos ducked, swearing. Brujon took the right and Porthos and Aramis flanked left, half-crouching as they ran and drawing their swords.

 

The fight was short and bloody, Aramis wounding one man in the side and killing another who tried to shoot him but missed narrowly, nicking his ear. Porthos managed to knock out a woman who ran screaming at him and waving an axe, and then shot another man in the shoulder so that he went down cursing and sobbing. The others ran off, and Brujon sent a couple of cadets after them.

“Constance would like us to send her these two,” Aramis said, pointing to the wounded. “You, and you- can you help them back to the garrison?”

Porthos groaned. “She’s going to have her hands full today.”

“She’ll manage, I have no doubt.”

They carried on with their depleted band of men.

 

“What is that?” Aramis said suddenly, staring at a pile of paper scattered on the ground, muddied and trampled. He got off his horse and picked up a few, paling visibly.

“Porthos.” He handed one to his friend and stood reading, his hand trembling.

“Just lies and rumours,” Porthos said dismissively, crumpling his up and tossing it behind them.

“Of course,” Aramis agreed softly, not looking up from the pamphlet. He swallowed hard, feeling a little sick at the image of Anne with her hands all over the Cardinal. He barely read the rest of the accusations and insults, his eyes returning again and again to the image. _I suspected him, before seeing this filth. Surely it cannot be coincidence. But Anne- Anne would never do this to me. She loves me._

A series of memories of the last few months came unbidden into Aramis’ head- of her laughing, whispering, smiling with Mazarin- and suddenly, he was not so sure. He tucked one of the pamphlets into his doublet and dropped the rest hastily.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to them,” Porthos said to him, seeing his distress.

“Of course,” Aramis replied with a smile, patting Porthos on the shoulder. “Come on. We have work to do.”

 

\--

 

PARIS STREETS

“This is madness,” d’Artagnan breathed as they rode through the abandoned streets and the wreckage of furniture broken up for barricades. “This is just like last time, only there are more people rioting and even less of us who are able to fight.” He hung his head. “I wish-“

“What.”

“I wish Treville was here,” d’Artagnan admitted with a shamefaced look.

Athos studied him for a moment. “I know.” He did too; he could scarcely believe their old Captain was dead, would often find himself wondering where he was, expecting him to enter a room and bark orders at them all. He knew that Treville’s death had been part of the reason he had been so eager to leave Paris, the city feeling haunted without him there.

 

It still was, though the ache had eased; after all, he had died doing his duty and had kept his honour, and that was a comfort. He would not have been displeased with his death.

“But,” he said, rousing himself from memory, “He would be proud. You are a good Captain, d’Artagnan. Better than I could ever have been.”

D’Artagnan smiled at him tiredly.  “Tell me that again when this is done.”

Athos gave him a half-smile and lapsed into silence.

 

“What are they doing-“ d’Artagnan said, squinting at a group of people gathered around a building.

“They’re setting it on fire,” Athos replied shortly, spurring his horse towards them and drawing his pistol. “Back! Everyone, back!” He scattered the crowd around him, almost leaping out of the saddle and pulling the branches away from the building they were trying to set alight. “D’Artagnan!”

D’Artagnan rushed to help him, beating the smoke and sparks from the small branches that had caught before Athos got to them. The crowd was screaming and throwing sticks, rocks, and planks of wood at them; d’Artagnan turned to them with his pistol drawn and his hand on his sword belt, covering Athos’ work, and they took a few steps back, scowling at him.

“There are people in this building!” Athos said disbelievingly, turning to look at d’Artagnan and the crowd. “You animals- you would burn people alive?”

“They are traitors!” one brave soul from the crowd screamed, and d’Artagnan pushed his way to him, grabbing him roughly and binding his hands and feet. “Traitors?” he asked breathlessly when he was done. “To who?”

“They are loyal to the Crown,” he spat at d’Artagnan’s feet.

“What you’re saying is treason,” Athos said curtly, eyeing the crowd. “Anyone else have something to say?”

The crowd scattered, melting away as though it had never been there. Athos pushed his way into the building, which had been barricaded from the outside, and disappeared into it, returning with a frightened man and woman who were beaten but otherwise unhurt. Athos examined their cuts and bruises for a moment, and then with uncharacteristic gentleness, he said softly, “Go to the garrison. Ask for Constance or Elodie, and they’ll bandage you both up.” They nodded mutely, squeezing Athos’ hands hard in thanks, and disappeared into the winding streets.

“Animals,” Athos muttered again when they had gone. D’Artagnan prodded the man lying bound at his feet. “You’re going to have a nice cell to yourself,” he said cheerfully.

 

\---

 

LOUVRE

“Your Majesty, there are people attempting to break through the gates,” a breathless guard said even as he bowed low before the Queen Regent.  Anne took in a breath, steadying herself and drawing her son closer to her. “Are they being held?”

“So far, yes,” the guard said quickly. “We’re doing all we can, Your Majesty. We will not let any harm come to you or the King.”

Anne looked at him. He was so young; his hair falling over his eyes in his eagerness to bow for her, his face clean shaven and red with exertion. She felt a surge of pity and admiration for these people, these strangers, for the most part, who would fight and die for her and her son without hesitation. She wished she did not have that power, wished that people did not live and die by her command. But her son was King, and it was her duty to protect him against everything, to make sure he was able to live and to rule when she was gone- and that made the burden not easier, but charged with a purpose that made it less painful to bear.

“Do what you can,” she said with as much reassurance and kindness as she could manage in her fear, and the young guard bowed again, so low his hair almost touched the floor, and left her in a rush.

 

“Have you seen the Prince today?” she asked Mazarin idly, once they were alone again.

“Your Majesty,” Mazarin began, unsure how to proceed. Delicately, he spread his hands and said, “I am afraid that the Prince comes and goes as he pleases. It is somewhat interesting, however, that he has gone missing precisely when these latest troubles began…”

Anne looked at him sharply. “Are you accusing Condé of being disloyal, Cardinal?”

Mazarin winced. “I would never do such a thing, Your Majesty- I merely wonder at the coincidence; the Prince has been receiving letters frequently these last few months, secretive letters that he lets no one see.”

“His letters are his own business,” the Queen said, but Mazarin could see that the seed of doubt had been planted, and contented himself with it.

 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Perhaps he could ask Aramis to see if he could gain entry to Condé’s rooms, look for anything incriminating. Once this was over, of course.

 

\---

 

PARIS STREETS

“I think we’re losing more men than we can manage,” Aramis noted to Porthos, as yet more of the cadets they had with them were dispatched to take prisoners and wounded back to the garrison. “We’re down to what- ten of us, including Brujon, and we’re barely making a dent in this mess.”

“I think you’re right,” Porthos sighed. “I hope the rest of them are having better luck.”

Aramis shrugged. “Perhaps. We should meet with Athos and d’Artagnan.”

“Good plan.” Porthos wheeled his horse. “I know where they’ll be.”

 

They found them at the gates to the Louvre, helping the guards to defend it. Their position was much stronger this time than the last; there were enough guards, cadets, and Musketeers to hold the gates comfortably for as long as necessary, and with Porthos and Aramis joining them, there was soon a noticeable shift in the mood of those trying to get past, the whole crowd becoming more wary and reticent, knowing they were most definitely outmatched on all fields.

“That’s right,” Porthos grinned viciously as one particularly nervous man dropped his sword at their feet and ran for it. Another followed, and then another, and soon the crowd was dispersing back into twos and threes, the guards given a respite for the moment.

“Porthos, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said happily, embracing them both. “About time you showed up.”

“We’ve been busy,” Aramis said with a smile, nodding to Athos.

Athos gave them both a weary smile and sheathed his sword with a sigh. “We were hardly standing idle,” he said dryly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aramis said airily, “It didn’t look like you were doing too much.” Athos rolled his eyes, having a quick word with the guards before re-joining them.

 

“We need to get the Queen out,” he said in a low voice to Aramis, leaning in. “And the King, too.”

“You think it’s necessary?”

“I believe so. This is only going to get worse, and the guards are confirming my fears.”

Aramis groaned, and mounted his horse. “I’ll go and tell her.” He rode through the gates slowly, the guards parting to allow him through, and Athos gave him a sympathetic glance before getting into the saddle himself.

“We should go back to the garrison,” d’Artagnan said with a worried glance around them. “We haven’t the men to do much more today, and the Queen might need us.”

“I agree,” Athos said shortly, already spurring his horse. “And I need a drink.”

 

They didn’t see the men crouched behind the windows of a burned-out building, muskets aimed.

 

\--

 

GARRISON

Constance, Blanchard, Elodie, and even some of the walking wounded were still busy cleaning wounds, bandaging soldiers and trying to find the room for as many people as possible. In a way, it was a good thing that the garrison was still not at full capacity; it meant there were spare rooms for the seriously injured and those requiring rest, leaving more space for the minor cuts and bruises in the yard.

Still, she was keeping on top of it- Elodie was in charge of bandaging minor wounds, she was cleaning, and Blanchard was stitching, inspecting, extracting musket balls, and otherwise taking care of the more severe problems with his sarcastic humour and his dry talent for understatement that was reassuringly _different_ from Lemay’s earnest good nature. It was becoming almost efficient, and it was distracting her from her sleeplessness and her worry for d’Artagnan and the others.

“Do you ever think about them not coming back?” Elodie asked on her way past, her face pale.

“Yes,” Constance had replied, before she could think of anything more comforting, “But they will. You’ll see, they’ll come riding through that gate any moment now.” Elodie hadn’t looked convinced but had nodded, continuing on her way, her baby wrapped tightly to her body in a sort of makeshift sling that Constance had much admired for its ingenuity.

 

“Constance!”

The clatter of hooves on stone and the sheer panic in Athos’ voice almost made Constance drop the bowl of water she was carrying. Two horses came galloping in- _two,_ her mind whispered- and for a horrible, breathless moment she thought someone was missing. The reality wasn’t much better, as Athos had d’Artagnan in front of him on his horse, the Captain’s body slumped uncomfortably. Athos slid from the saddle as carefully as possible, lifting d’Artagnan down with him and carrying him to an empty bench. “Quickly!” he said hoarsely, and Blanchard finished the stitches he was doing and rushed over, washing his hands.

“D’Artagnan?” Constance said, her voice weak, and then again, “d’Artagnan!” She ran to him, dropping her bowl, and stared at his face intently. He was breathing, but shallowly, and his eyes were half closed and unresponsive. He was groaning softly, turning his head this way and that. Porthos ran over and stood awkwardly on the periphery of the circle, glancing anxiously between everyone’s expressions.

“He’s alive,” Athos said, panting from the effort of the ride, “but he needs this ball removed-“ He opened d’Artagnan’s doublet and lifted his shirt. “Doctor?”

 

Doctor Blanchard inspected it shortly and winced. “I can remove it,” he said, drying his hands, “But I’ll need to be quick. It may have punctured his stomach.” His eyes were quick and sharp as he assessed the wound as best as he could.

“Do it,” Athos urged. Constance was stood still, staring fixedly at d’Artagnan.

“Constance,” Athos said sharply. “Constance, water. Now! D’Artagnan needs you.”

Constance blinked, shaking herself, and nodded shakily, running for fresh water as Doctor Blanchard fetched his instruments. Athos noted that he used the same technique as Lemay, dipping his scalpel into boiling water, and wondered if Constance had passed that onto him.

The Doctor was tired, dark circles under his eyes betraying him, and his hands were shaky; but with a herculean effort, he took in a deep breath and got to work, aware of all the eyes on him and sweating with the additional pressure.

The ball was removed slowly, gently; each movement of the Doctor’s scalpel tentative and careful in case he did more damage than he could repair, the tweezers eased in with the most delicate movement Porthos had ever seen. This doctor was good, he had to admit; he looked like under normal circumstances, he would have nerves of steel.

Finally, the shot was located, removed, and dropped into the bowl, and Blanchard peered at the wound with his breath held.

“I think it missed the stomach,” he declared after a long, painful silence. “He should be just fine.” Porthos clapped him hard on the back, his face still grim and his heart beating painfully hard in his chest. He had been worried there for a moment, even if he wasn’t about to admit it.

Athos sagged against the bench in relief, his head almost touching the wood and his eyes closed as the Doctor bandaged d’Artagnan up and tried to wake him. Constance was shaking from head to toe in silent, anguished shock, her face pale and her breathing ragged. _He could have died,_ she thought over and over, wondering if she could have stopped it, if there was any way in which it was her fault- ridiculous, of course, but still- until Porthos noticed her silence and came over to her, gripping her shoulder firmly. “He’ll be fine,” he said in a low voice. “There are people who still need you.”

Constance nodded, but her feet didn’t want to move. She looked at Porthos helplessly and was reassured by the same panic that she felt slowly fading from his eyes. She took in a breath and nodded again, and this time, she managed to return to the other men lying in the yard, picking up more water and more rags and setting to work again. Elodie shot her a concerned look, and she smiled back at her gratefully before ducking her head and losing herself to the job at hand.

D’Artagnan was in the best hands he could hope for, and if Blanchard thought he would recover, then he had to. He was perhaps as fine a doctor as Lemay had been; teaching him the trick with the boiling water was an attempt to give Lemay a legacy, something tangible he had left in the world, and she hoped it would have made him proud. But right now- now, there was work to do.

\----

LOUVRE

“I must insist,” Aramis said as politely as possible for perhaps the hundredth time.

“You _insist?_ ” Anne said archly. “You overstep your duties, Aramis.”

“Your Majesty, I beg you,” he tried again. “You must leave Paris, the King too. I could accompany you, protect you both on your journey.”

“You will remain here,” she said icily. “Where you are of use.” Aramis felt a stab of dismay at her cold tone, at the fierce glint in her eye, and was about to protest when he realised.

“You mean you will leave?” he said quickly.

“The Cardinal will accompany me,” the Queen Regent said in a tone that brooked no argument. “We will go to Saint-Germain and remain there until it is sufficiently safe to return.”

Aramis could scarcely believe it-not only had Anne agreed to leave, but she was taking Mazarin with her? His relief was instantly tempered by irrational jealousy. He struggled to speak for a moment, taken aback.

“But, Your Majesty,” he tried, “forgive me, but the Cardinal is not a soldier, or indeed a swordsman of any kind- and I mean you no offence whatsoever, Your Eminence,” he said apologetically to Mazarin. “Surely you would be better protected by a Musketeer guard?”

“I will take my personal guards,” she said. “We will be well protected, rest assured.” Her tone softened. “Aramis. I know you only wish the best for us, but we require you to remain in Paris with the Musketeers.”

“Is that an order, Your Majesty?” he asked helplessly.

“It is.”

“Then of course, I shall obey.” He bowed gracefully. “May I have a word in private, before you depart?”

Anne dismissed Mazarin with a smile, leaving the two of them alone.

 _I am the worst kind of wretch,_ Aramis thought unhappily, knowing that what he was going to ask would likely bring nothing but misery. He pulled the pamphlet out from his doublet, shamefaced, and handed it to the Queen.

 

“I have to know,” he said, feeling tears prickling at his eyes. “Is there any truth to this?”

 _She’s seen these before,_ he noted, as she barely read the paper before returning it to him, her eyes blazing. “How dare you,” she hissed, looking around wildly despite them being alone. “How dare you _ask_ this?”

“I need to know,” he said stubbornly, unable to meet her eyes. “Please, Anne-“

“I thought you trusted me, Aramis.” Her voice wavered; it almost broke his heart. He swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “I do.”

“Then you have no need to ask whether such filth is true.”

“So it isn’t?” A wild sense of hope blossomed in his chest, relief making him almost lightheaded.

“Of course it isn’t. Aramis…” he lifted his head to look at her properly, finding her holding back tears and smiling sadly.

 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know the Cardinal and I have been spending a lot of time together, Aramis,” she said carefully. “I am not ready to tell you why, as of yet. But;“ she paused, taking his hand, “I swear that I would never dishonour you.”

“I know. Please forgive me.” He crumpled up the pamphlet suddenly, hating it, hating his own lack of belief, and shoved it into his pocket angrily.

Anne took a step closer to him, reaching to touch his face, briefly but tenderly. Aramis smiled at her, wishing he had said nothing. Especially not just before she was about to flee Paris.

“I must get ready to depart,” she reminded him gently, and he blinked out of his thoughts.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said with a bow. “Have a safe journey.” _I wish I was going with you._

“I will write,” she assured him. “You must stay where you are needed. Stop this, Aramis. Make Paris safe for your King.” The way she said it sounded like _your son._

 _God, please keep them safe,_ he thought desperately as he left the Louvre on horseback, galloping back to the garrison without heeding the people scattering in front of his hooves. _For my sake, and for France._

 

 

\---

 

PARIS STREETS

Milady de Winter had been busy since seeing the Queen. Of course, the riots and the barricades were not ideal, but they allowed a certain amount of chaos to be ignored, meaning that she could slip easily between buildings and through alleyways without being observed. The pamphlets, as she discovered, were widespread and seeming to come from _everywhere,_ which was an annoying tangle of _he said, she said_ and a rather unfulfilling morning spent threatening peasants at knifepoint only to get a vague, “well, I don’t know, but _they_ might,” from almost all of them as to who was distributing them, and more importantly, who was _printing_ them and ordering them printed. She suspected that last one would be someone very close to the Queen herself, some of the details in the pamphlet hard to obtain without insider knowledge.

 

A few more hours in, and she had made some progress, albeit slow. And she hadn’t even had to kill anyone yet.

_Of course, that could change._

The unfortunate victim was stood in the shade of a ramshackle looking building on the corner of an even more terrible looking street- and he had an armful of pamphlets that he was giving out to passers-by. She walked in front of him, received one of the documents, and checked it was the correct one before making a move.

Dragging him into the building with no one noticing was easier for all the disarray in the streets. She drew her pistol, aimed it at his head, and in a calm voice asked, “Who printed these?”

“Please,” the man babbled, his bald head shining with sweat. “Please, I don’t know-“

“Who gave them to you?”

“They had a cloak on, honestly- I didn’t see them please, you have to believe me-“

“How many of them were there?”

“Just one.”

She paused for a moment. There were probably multiple people, across the city, handing these out directly from the printing presses. It was likely he only saw one of them.

She bit her lip.

“Was it a man?”

“No, a woman,” he said eagerly, happy to have something useful. “I heard her voice.”

“Did you recognise the voice?”

“No. Didn’t sound highborn though, not like you, if you please.”

Milady almost smirked at the irony of that observation. She was probably no more highborn than this wretch.

“Please don’t kill me,” he begged, and Milady smiled. “I’m not going to kill you. As long as do you something for me.”

“Anything, anything, please-“

 

With deliberately exaggerated motions, she replaced her pistol on her belt, and outlined her plan to the relieved, sobbing man.

 

\---

 

GARRISON- NEXT DAY

“Don’t keep trying to move, d’Artagnan,” Constance said irritably. “You’ll break the stitches and bleed everywhere, and the Doctor isn’t here to help you.”

D’Artagnan grumbled and shifted anyway. “I don’t like lying around when there’s work to do.”

“You’ll be no good to help anyone in your state,” she chided. “Blanchard said you can get up tomorrow.”

He grunted and reached for some paperwork. “At least let me do _something_.”

Constance rolled her eyes and left him to it with a quick kiss on the forehead.

                                                                                                                    

 

“Ah, Constance,” Aramis said, looking up from a quiet conversation with Athos. He handed over the papers that Athos had requested and patted him on the shoulder, walking briskly away to find Porthos and Elodie, and perhaps even to look after the baby for them for a while. It was barely evening, and though he was tired after another day riding and dealing with the rioters, he was restless and eager for something to distract him from the worry that Anne was in danger somewhere he couldn’t help her.

 

“Constance,” Athos nodded, sitting at the table in the yard and waiting until she joined him before pouring her a drink.

“What is it?” she asked warily, sliding onto the bench.

“I have taken the liberty of finding out some information that I believe may help your nightmares,” he said without making eye contact, instead picking at the grain on the table. He slid one of the pieces of paper over to her. The other only confirmed what Milady had said; she was indeed working for the Queen. He hadn’t really expected otherwise.

 

_Unmarked grave, plot 1302, Holy Innocents’ Cemetery_

_Map enclosed_

_Her Majesty agreed to allow marking of grave & a posthumous pardon for Lemay_

_-Aramis_

“Athos,” she said softly, tears welling in her eyes and fighting desperately to hold them back.

“I apologise that it took a while,” Athos said awkwardly. “What with everything-“

“No,” she breathed, her breath hitching. “Thank you.” She looked at him, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Thank you, Athos.” He smiled at her, briefly, and blinked hard.

“I thought if you liked, you could visit- see the grave-“

“I want to.”

She stood, looking indecisive. “Would you- would you come with me?”

Athos frowned at her. “Shouldn’t d’Artagnan-“

“He isn’t leaving that bed until tomorrow at the earliest,” she said firmly. “And with the riots, you know, it’s not safe-“

She took a deep breath, looking embarrassed.

“And I don’t want to be alone.”

Athos stood, taking the bottle with him. “I’ll get the horses.”

 

\----

 

 

HOLY INNOCENTS’ CEMETERY

“Have you heard anything more from Sylvie?” Constance asked as they rode through the gates of the cemetery slowly.

“I sent her money after the last riots,” Athos said thoughtfully, “But no. She didn’t reply.”

“That was a month ago,” Constance said.

“Perhaps she has nothing more to say to me,” Athos shrugged, dismounting from his horse and helping Constance to do the same. “I could hardly blame her, considering. _Considering I walked out on her and didn’t look back._

“She’s probably busy with her school.”

“Perhaps. I sent her more money only a few days ago. We shall see if she replies to that.”

They walked in silence, leading the horses and glancing at the diagram every so often until they found a whole row of unmarked graves, towards the edge of the cemetery.

“Which is it?” Constance asked, trying to figure out the map.

“Third from the left-“ Athos grunted, pointing. “That one.” He hung back as she walked to the grave and knelt beside it, placing the flowers that she had bought on the way with a gentle, careful reverence. Athos felt like he should turn away, and did, brushing hay from his horse’s mane and inspecting the saddles with awkward immersion.

 

“I’m sorry,” Constance said; it was all she could think to say, for a long moment, placing the flowers and staring at them silently as she tried to gather her thoughts.

“You deserved better than this,” she breathed finally, looking around her. “You were a brilliant doctor, and a good man, and if I had not loved d’Artagnan, you would have been a fine, gentle husband, one I would have been proud to marry.” She took in a shaky breath, licking her lips and tasting tears she didn’t know had fallen.

“I wish I could have done something. Anything. I should have-“ she stopped herself, shaking her head. He would not have wanted her to blame herself.

“The Queen pardoned you,” she continued finding herself smiling through the tears. “You are innocent. And she says you can have a headstone, so you will be remembered.” She rearranged the petals on one of the flowers, smoothing out the yellow softness under her fingertips idly while she thought. “Thank you,” she finished, getting to her feet. She glanced around for Athos, who appeared silently at her side with his hat in his hand, looking down at the grave.

“He was in love with me,” she said to him. “I couldn’t give him the answer he wanted, but he was still a true friend.”

“He saved Treville’s life once,” Athos remarked. “He was a good man.”

Constance nodded, and together they turned from the grave and mounted their horses in silence.

 

\---

 

 

GARRISON- NEXT DAY

“I’m getting up.”

“Be careful,” Constance said, exasperated. But d’Artagnan was determined, and was on his feet before she could stop him, walking stiffly out to the balcony and squinting into the rain. It was coming down hard, the ground soaked already, and showed no sign of abating. On the plus side, many of the rioters had given up for the day, taking shelter undercover.

“We need new recruits,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Constance-“

“We gave advertisements out to _all_ of the inns and taverns, d’Artagnan,” she sighed. “The few we got were from those.”

“Then we need to put out more, in the streets,” he went on relentlessly. “And perhaps try and recruit some of the rioters-“

“Don’t be daft.”

“Do you see an end to these riots without more men?”

“You said that there was a treaty-“

“And God himself only knows when that will be signed- not me!”

 

She lapsed into silence, staring at the rain. Porthos was standing under the shelter of a low roof, talking animatedly to Aramis with Elodie’s- well, _their_ child _,_ she supposed, in his arms. _How old was she now?_ She must be coming up to a year at least, surely, already babbling and trying to wriggle free from Porthos’ gentle grip without success. Aramis was pulling faces at her, Marie-Suzette laughing and trying to hit Aramis in the face. As she watched, Constance saw Porthos lift her to his shoulders to try and appease her, only succeeding in having her try to climb onto the roof. They both laughed, and Elodie came out to disentangle the child from the rafters with a scolding to Porthos that he took in good nature.

 

 _I wonder if I will ever-_ she thought, realising that Athos was also watching them from across the yard, a blank, far-away look on his face and a bottle in his hand. She blinked, hearing d’Artagnan saying her name.

“What?”

D’Artagnan frowned and followed her gaze to Elodie and the others. His expression softened and he touched her shoulder gently. “It’ll happen.”

“When?”

“When it’s right,” he reassured her, kissing her forehead. “We have our whole lives, and you said yourself that it isn’t a good idea right now.”

She smiled against his neck.

“I know. I love you. We’ll find more recruits, d’Artagnan,” she said after a moment.

 

\--

 

“And then the lovely lady grabbed my pistol, only it wasn’t my pistol-“ Aramis said to a chuckling Porthos.

“Is that really appropriate for our daughter to hear?” Elodie sighed with no real anger, raising an eyebrow at her husband. Porthos glowed inside at the word _our_ and shook his head, chastised but still grinning.

“My apologies,” Aramis said to Elodie, inclining his head.

“Gee,” intoned Marie-Suzette ominously, from Porthos’ arms.

Elodie shook her head, wearily amused. “It never ends.”

“Gee.”

Porthos bounced her a little. “That’s sort of words, right?”

“She isn’t going to be speaking properly for a while yet, Porthos,” Elodie said patiently. “She’s only a year old.”

“Can you say Porthos?” he said, putting his face right up close to hers and wincing as she grabbed at his beard. “Ouch.”

She laughed and tugged his beard again, and he grimaced.  “Never mind.”

“Perhaps you should shave,” Elodie suggested with all the innocence she could muster.

“No,” Porthos said with a tiredness that made Aramis suspect this happened often. He gave Elodie a quick smile though, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Men. Go on, off with you both. Do some work for a change. Those riots won’t stop themselves.”

Porthos handed Marie-Suzette over and kissed them both before venturing into the rain.

“Come on, Athos,” he called over as they got onto their horses.  Athos detached himself from his shelter and walked over with his head down against the rain.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

PARIS STREETS

“Are you well, Athos?” Aramis asked, glancing at Athos as they rode. “You’re even more silent than usual.”

“Yes,” Athos said, and then with a sigh, “Maybe.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Aramis nodded and carried on, Porthos riding beside him with his head hunched into his shoulders to protect his neck from the rain. He looked like a wet cat, unhappy and scowling, and Aramis grinned at him in amusement. “Enjoying the weather?”

“Leave it,” Porthos warned, not turning his head. “I hate the rain.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Aramis said delicately, hiding his smile behind a cough.

 

Athos was tormented with confusion. Last night, he had been having the usual nightmare; he was stood on the hill, the tree stark against the grey-white sky, his wife hanging on the end of the rope and choking, his feet like stone, his screams ripped from him.

And then he had moved.

He had moved as though through molasses, feeling the edges of the nightmare tear at the seams, feeling his screams shredding his throat even though he heard nothing. He had reached the rope, had drawn his sword to cut it-

And had woken up, sweating and screaming, his shouts muffled in his pillows.

 

He had never, not in all the years since he had hanged her, had that dream and been able to move. Why now? He was being driven mad by it, turning it over in his mind again and again since waking. He had started drinking as soon as he sat up but it didn’t seem to be helping him, was barely dulling his mind. Perhaps it was that he hadn’t already been hungover, having drunk little the day before.

Preoccupied, he gnawed at it like a starving dog at a bone, barely hearing his friends talking to each other until Aramis nudged him with an elbow.

 

“Athos, is that-“

Athos glanced into the streets and saw the edge of a worn grey cloak and hood disappearing around a building. He looked questioningly at Aramis.

“Sorry. I thought I knew her. My mistake.”

Athos grunted, scanning the crowd himself and seeing only Musketeers doing their jobs and fighting rioters, mud underfoot and misery etched on everyone’s faces.

Wait. _There_ was someone he knew. Instantly, he forgot all about the woman Aramis had thought he'd seen, dismissing it as his friend's imagination rather than something he should investigate further. His attention was firmly distracted by _her._

 

He squinted at the woman who was clearly trying not to be seen, watching the streets from the cover of an abandoned shop doorway.

“I’ll catch up,” he said abruptly, turning his horse and trotting towards her.

Aramis followed his gaze, rolled his eyes fondly, and muttered to Porthos, “He’ll be hours. Let’s go check on the prisoners.”

 

\---

 

“What are you doing here?”

He slid out of the saddle and stomped through the puddles towards Milady, frowning. She looked startled- genuinely surprised- to see him, and some of his irritation melted away as she clearly hadn’t been following him.

“My job,” she said with an air of amusement. “As I assume you were.”

He glanced back to where his friends had already moved off into the crowd, and then back to her. There was rain dripping into his doublet and running off the brim of his hat, an endless, annoying drumbeat of rain that she was avoiding neatly. He stepped closer, underneath the doorway she was sheltering in, and she didn’t step back or flinch this time. He didn’t know what to say; his eyes were wide and searching, looking at her for any hint of her thoughts, his hand itching to brush away a stray lock of hair that had fallen into her face. He stopped himself abruptly, realising he was breathing her in and forcing himself to talk business instead.

“Surveillance?”

“Of a kind. Intimidation, to be more precise.”

Athos huffed out a short noise of amusement.

 

“I see my proof was not enough for you,” she said after a moment, with a raised eyebrow. “Sending your little friend Aramis to check up on me was _very_ like you.”

“I believed you,” he forced out, hating to say it. “I just had to be sure.”

She blinked, frowning slightly before recollecting herself. There was an awkward pause, Milady hesitant and wary-eyed.

“I didn’t lie.” She said it firmly, meeting his eyes and seemingly waiting for a reply.

 _About what?_ He thought. _Are we still talking about working for the Queen? Or have we moved beyond that, back in time and to another life like we always seem to do?_

_Have you always been this strange and unfathomable to me, or is it a fault in myself?_

 

He went for the answer that was buried deep inside of him from the years of regret and wondering and fear that he had been wrong; something that he should have said to her before now.

 

“I know you didn’t.” His answer was vague, encompassing more than he could articulate; his voice was hoarse, barely audible to anyone further apart than they were right now, and even she looked as though she hadn’t heard him for a long moment, her gaze intense and uncomprehending. And then it seemed to hit her, her eyes widening, a short breath that might have been _oh_ escaping from her, and her hands reached for him almost automatically, cupping his face and stroking her thumbs across his cheeks. He allowed himself to do the unthinkable and reach out, tucking that wild lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a small smile.

 

She kissed him briefly– gently, almost tenderly even, her lips soft and her perfume intoxicating – and was gone before Athos could even take in a breath, disappearing around a corner like smoke, his arms still reaching for the woman who was no longer there.

 

Silently, he returned to his horse and swung into the saddle with his head down and his thoughts racing.

The rain began to slow.

\---

 

 

GARRISON- NEXT DAY

 

_To A-_

_We have arrived safely. Do not fret, we are well guarded. My son is in good spirits and M- is with us. All is well; the journey was comfortable and we are being accommodated very hospitably here._

_We hear the riots continue- I trust you are all conducting yourselves as befits a Musketeer. Write to M- with any news of the Prince C-, should you see or hear of him. M- has suspicions regarding his whereabouts._

_Faithfully_

_A_

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, and brevity was safer in these circumstances anyway. Aramis tucked the letter into his doublet. Athos was eating an apple grimly as though it had done him a personal injury, staring it down as he chewed. Aramis smiled at him and leaned over. “Breakfast still a novelty to you?”

Athos grunted and took another bite, following it with wine. Usually, he couldn’t face food in the morning, too hungover or still actively drunk to even look at it. It was only in the last few years that he’d begun to try food before noon; and even that had stopped since he’d been back in Paris, his drinking back to pre-campaign levels. Aramis took it as a sign that he had cut back a little on the wine. Finishing the apple, Athos tossed it aside and went for another one. He looked in rather good spirits- well, for Athos, anyway- and he turned to Aramis and nodded at where the letter lay against his heart.

“Is that from the Queen?” he asked while biting into the next apple. Aramis nodded.

“She arrived safely,” he said with unconcealed relief. “Mazarin too, though I must admit I am less than overjoyed at them being alone-“

“You told me that Her Majesty denied-“

“She did, and I trust her,” he sighed. “I just-“ he furrowed his eyebrows helplessly, and Athos nodded, tipping his bottle of wine towards him in a salute.

“She says to let the Cardinal know anything we find about Condé,” Aramis continued. “He suspects something.”

“He is likely right to,” Athos agreed, taking another bite and picking up a chunk of cheese as well. “I’m hungry,” he said to Aramis’ concerned expression.

 

“You’re never hungry,” Porthos said, coming over to them across the yard still stretching and yawning extravagantly. “Are you ill?”

Athos shrugged. “Perhaps.”

He had had that nightmare again, the strange new one where he could almost make it; still awful, still waking him every few hours shaking and crying, but _different_ to what he’d been haunted by for almost ten years now and therefore somehow more bearable. And he didn’t think his encounter with Milady had gone _too_ terribly, either. Two reasons to be less irritable than 7am usually found him. Now if he could get through today without feeling like he had to go drown himself in wine, he’d count it a good day.

 

Aramis smiled to himself, remembering the day before when they had left him, but said nothing, instead leaning back to grip Porthos’ hand for a moment before he sat down with them.

“Leave me some, will you,” Porthos grumbled at Athos, who was reaching for grapes as well. “And pass me the wine.”

“Get your own wine.”

 

D’Artagnan leaned over the balcony above them, wincing at his wound but dressed to go out. “I’m coming with you today. There are still too few of us for me to be lying around useless.”

“But Constance-“

“Constance be damned,” he said, and then looked around guiltily in case she’d heard him.

“She’s with Elodie, grooming horses,” Porthos supplied with a grin. “But I’ll be happy to tell her you said that.”

D’Artagnan groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

He came down the stairs slowly but steadily, looking well enough. Athos got up first, still holding a few grapes and tossing them into his mouth. “Shall we?”

Porthos shook his head at Aramis. “I don’t like it when he’s cheerful,” he muttered with a wary look at Athos. Aramis laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, standing as well.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I couldn’t.” Porthos got up too, even though he’d only sat down a minute ago, and with a pointed sigh, he finished his drink and followed the others. “I’ll be glad when these damned riots are over,” he grumbled. “I’m going to lose weight if I keep skipping breakfast.” He looked mournfully back at his uneaten breakfast.

“Athos will put extra on to compensate,” d’Artagnan said, calling for their horses.

Athos didn’t deign to reply, swinging into the saddle and galloping out of the gates without a word, d’Artagnan close behind.

 

 _This is where I belong,_ Aramis thought a little guiltily as he mounted his horse and prepared to set out into the city again with Porthos. He could already hear the sounds of unrest, the occasional musket fire and the screaming. _I shouldn’t have agreed to be Minister. But how on Earth would I even begin to resign? I couldn't let Anne down like that._

 

 

 


	5. EPISODE FIVE: "ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit worried people might object to this chapter. Don't regret it anyway. This one is a long one, it sort of needed more than I anticipated.  
> Next episode is Milathos, to those reading this just for them xD  
> Thanks to all. Again all historical inaccuracies are my own and mostly deliberate. :P

GARRISON

“There’s quite a few today,” Porthos noted to d’Artagnan as he watched potential cadets lining up in the yard. “Some of them might actually know how to fight.”

In truth, quite a few was only five or six; but it was more than they’d seen in the last few weeks, the riots an ongoing and real threat to Paris. There had been some progress made- as many ringleaders as possible had been rounded up and imprisoned- but there always seemed to be more of them; more pamphlets, more fighting, more people seemingly desperate to get themselves killed for a purpose none of them seemed to be aware of. Porthos wasn’t quite sure what it was either. All he knew was that the Crown was threatened- by the officials of Parlement, by some dissatisfied nobles, and possibly by Condé himself if Mazarin’s suspicions were correct. The Prince had barely been seen in the weeks since the Queen Regent and King had fled Paris, the letters Aramis showed the others brief, concise and vague enough to keep her safe.

 

So they had been recruiting and fighting, growing more desperate and less supplied by the day. They were running low on food- _Paris_ was running low on food, to be honest- and powder and shot were becoming a valuable commodity. The treaty they were all waiting on had yet to be signed, the armies of France still off fighting instead of returning to Paris and therefore leaving the Musketeers to defend it themselves.

 _Surely it has to be done soon,_ Porthos thought irritably to himself, his train of thought interrupted by the last man to line up.

“He’s a bit short, isn’t he?” he said to d’Artagnan with a laugh.

 

The potential cadet was young and dark skinned, his hair short and his coat clearly too big for him, though his bearing was proud and aloof. It was his height that set him apart, though; Porthos guessed at him being somewhere between 5’ 4 and 5’6 at most, the leanness of his body only accentuating his stature further. He stood with his eyes fixed forward, his mouth pressed tightly closed, and said nothing until spoken to by Athos who was inspecting the new recruits.

 

“Name?”

“Jean.”

“Age?” Athos said, looking closely at him.

“Twenty two,” Jean said with an almost challenging look at Athos.

“Hmm.” Athos frowned and then shrugged eloquently.

“Have you any skill with a blade or musket?”

“I believe so.” A modest enough but confident answer. Porthos grunted in approval.

“We shall see.” Athos glanced at d’Artagnan and began splitting the new recruits into pairs, arming them with blunt rapiers and setting them against each other in sparring matches. Then he returned to the side of the yard, leaning against the wall with the others and picking up his bottle of wine from where he’d left it.

“Six today,” he commented. Porthos nodded, his eyes fixed on the matches with interest.

 

“That little one can fight.” Aramis looked impressed, Jean disarming his opponent within a minute and standing over him with his blade at their throat. Athos gestured for them to start again.

 

“He can fight,” Athos agreed once Jean had helped the man up and given him a sword again, “but I’m not sure about him. Something feels… _off_ about him.”

“Let the boy fight,” Porthos said, amused at the quick confidence of Jean as he disarmed his opponent again, the other man making no effort to hide his frustration this time.

Aramis laughed as Jean’s opponent refused the hand offered to him, shoving Jean back and shouting in his face when he regained his feet. Athos stepped forward to intervene, angry, but Jean neatly sidestepped the badly aimed blow of the other recruit, and, using his shortness to his advantage, came up again underneath his arm and within his defence.

And then, he head-butted the recruit. Porthos heard the dull _thunk_ of the impact from the side of the yard, wincing as the man staggered back and fell, senseless, to the ground.

Porthos couldn’t help himself; he roared out a laugh and went to slap Jean on the back, the young man looking delighted and flushed with pleasure at the approval. “That was good,” Porthos said. “Very good.”

“Thanks,” Jean said slightly breathlessly. He rubbed his head and then grinned up at Porthos amiably. “I might have a headache tomorrow.”

“Better than him,” d’Artagnan noted, hauling the semi-conscious recruit to his feet. “Get him out of here,” he told two Musketeers with some disgust. “He hasn’t the temperament anyway. The rest of you, you can stay for now. Get your uniform from Elodie and meet me back here in ten minutes.” They trooped off excitedly, Jean almost bouncing on the balls of his feet as he trotted behind them.

 

Ten minutes later, d’Artagnan, Aramis, Athos and Porthos stood before the assembled cadets, Musketeers, and the newest recruits, assembled in the yard. The new men were at the front, practically glowing with pride in their new blue uniforms. Jean’s was a little large but nowhere near as ridiculous as his coat had been, his hat falling over one eye in a manner Porthos assumed he thought was rakish.

“We must hold Paris against the rioters,” d’Artagnan was saying. “You newest recruits will be merged with other groups- pay attention to the Musketeers in charge, stay out of trouble, and do whatever they ask of you. I am sorry we cannot afford to give you the proper training,” he said slightly shamefacedly, “But you are required urgently. You will be trained around active duty as and when we can. Porthos?”

Porthos got to work splitting the cadets into groups with more experienced Musketeers.

It was no accident that Jean was sorted into his and Aramis’ group. _I want to see this boy really fight,_ Porthos mused _._ He was sick of the riots; sick of the endless days of fighting and shouting and riding and getting up so early that he barely saw Elodie or Marie-Suzette beyond collapsing into bed at night. A little light entertainment would just about make today bearable, he hoped, and Jean seemed unconventional enough to amuse him.

 

He also couldn’t help it; he glowed inside a little at the reverent, joyful expression Jean gave him when he said to come with them. D’Artagnan had looked at Athos like that once, and Porthos had been a little put out by it at the time as well as finding Athos’ slight discomfort hilarious.

 

Porthos swung into the saddle with more grace than usual, sitting tall on his horse. He ignored the fondly tolerant look Aramis gave him, as well as the well-hidden smirk Athos was wearing as he spoke quietly to d’Artagnan before getting onto his horse.

 

 ---

 

 

PARIS STREETS

“Your new protégé is keeping a close eye on you,” Aramis smiled to Porthos as they rode through the streets, keeping a steady pace despite the crowds of people who kept trying to get in their way.

Porthos huffed out a short laugh, glancing behind them to where Jean was riding his horse – a little awkwardly, clearly not a natural in the saddle, his expression perpetually concerned.

“Let the lad be,” he said. “He seems a decent enough sort.”

“I’m not denying it,” Aramis shrugged with a grin. “It’s rather adorable, really. The son you never had.”

“I have a daughter,” Porthos reminded him. “And she doesn’t look like him.”

Aramis laughed and leaned over to clap Porthos’ shoulder. “I doubt Elodie would approve of you taking home this particular waif for her to look after.”

“I dunno,” Porthos mused, serious for a moment. “Isn’t that what the Musketeers do, really? Take in the stragglers that aren’t wanted elsewhere?” _That’s what they did for me- for a lot of us. Why should this lad be any different?_

Aramis tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “I suppose you’re right, you know,” he said. “I feel all warm inside now. Shall we hug?”

“Not in public, Aramis,” Porthos grinned. “People might talk.”

 

The fighting was becoming dull; something Porthos had thought would never happen. He longed for a lazy day, a day he could spend in bed with Elodie, or playing with their child, or even just drinking too much and trying to shoot a melon from Aramis’ head. The days when he used to do that felt so long ago that he could barely remember them.

They stopped a skirmish in a back alley, broke down a barricade in the main road, arrested three men and a woman and sent them off to prison with an escort, all before noon. Even the rioters were becoming exhausted and dispirited with fighting, and it felt less like a battle and more like a petty playground war with each passing day. Even the refugees had joined the fray, supplying the rioters and joining them against the Crown when in the past they had been ignored or actively attacked by the people of Paris. Porthos wasn’t sure why they would, but it added another dimension to the issue.

 

“I’m hungry,” Porthos complained after they finished dismantling another barricade that stood in their way.

“Of course you are,” Aramis said with a smile, throwing wood to one side. “You’re awake.”

“It isn’t my fault-“ Porthos grunted between throwing broken furniture aside, “-I barely get time to eat anymore.”

“You could always get out of bed earlier,” Aramis suggested innocently. “Brujon, help me with this.”

“And then I wouldn’t get enough sleep,” Porthos grumbled.

“There’s no winning with you, is there?” Aramis sighed fondly. “That should do it.” He dusted off his doublet absently. He wasn’t wearing the Musketeer uniform again, much to Porthos’ annoyance, but he had allowed them to get him out of that ridiculous blue outfit and into something more his style- brown and leather and elegantly tailored.

“You should be in uniform,” he said gruffly. “I don’t like seeing your arm all-“ he made a sweeping gesture at where Aramis’ pauldron should have been, scowling.

“I’m not a Musketeer anymore,” Aramis sighed. “You know that.”

Porthos looked down. _It’s not right,_ he thought, but he bit his tongue and said nothing.

 

\--

 

PARIS STREETS

Athos was frowning at a building, silent and hunched over his horse’s neck.

“What are you looking at?”

“What do you see in that house,” Athos said with a brief nod towards it.

D’Artagnan looked, tilting his head.

“Nothing,” he said eventually, giving up. “Why?”

“A few moments ago I was sure I saw something flash in the upstairs window,” Athos said thoughtfully, not moving his eyes from the house. “But I’ve seen nothing since, and we’re well in range of a weapon if whoever was in there wished to shoot us.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “Do you think we’re being watched?”

“Perhaps,” Athos replied. “Or it could be nothing.” He sat back in the saddle and turned his attention to d’Artagnan. “Regardless, we have work to do.”

They slid from their horses at the entrance to the refugee camp, Athos sighing to himself. Memories of this place were confusing; a strange mixture of vague nostalgia and fondness tinged with shame and unease. He should never have allowed himself to be distracted by Sylvie; and yet distracted was a _terrible_ word, an unfair thing to say about a woman who had done nothing but love him more than he had her.

Some of his thoughts clearly showed on his face, as d’Artagnan patted his shoulder comfortingly as they walked into the camp. They were met with distrust and open hostility- as they expected- but Athos found the scrutiny especially unnerving, looking straight ahead and allowing d’Artagnan to lead him as he felt like some people were looking at him in particular.

They stopped in front of an older man who seemed to be the one in charge at the moment. He was a quiet, dignified looking man, with deep wrinkles between his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth, his eyes dark and unreadable.

 

“I am d’Artagnan, of the Musketeers, and this is Athos,” d’Artagnan began. “Are you Aaron?”

The man nodded silently.

“We’re here to negotiate with you about the riots,” d’Artagnan said with a brief bow. “Why have you joined the people causing unrest?”

“Because they are allied with our own suffering,” the man said without changing expression.

“These people have never been friends to you.”

“Neither has the Crown,” he pointed out.

“The Queen herself ordered supplies to be brought to you,” d’Artagnan said, incredulous. “How can you say-“

“And the Queen keeps us penned in here like animals with no humanity or even the right to freedom, such as it is in this city anyway. We owe them no allegiance, her or the little King.”

D’Artagnan blinked, thinking quickly. “If we could guarantee your freedom- true freedom, such as it is,” he said with a small, charming smile and a nod of the head, “and if we could offer assistance in building real homes for you, would you reconsider joining the rabble and instead fight with us?”

Athos blinked but said nothing, trusting d’Artagnan knew what he was doing.

The old man looked at them both silently for a moment, and then sniffed. “I will consider it. Come back in two days.”

With a quick glance to Athos, who nodded minutely, d’Artagnan bowed to Aaron respectfully and they withdrew.

 

“Two days?” d’Artagnan muttered to Athos on the way back to their horses.

“Two days is nothing in Paris at the moment,” Athos replied, ducking his head to avoid meeting anyone’s eye, his skin prickling with the feeling of being watched. “How do you propose we guarantee their freedom if he agrees?”

“I was hoping Aramis would be able to nudge Her Majesty,” d’Artagnan said guiltily. “After all, it’s at her orders we’re negotiating.”

“Well, first he has to agree,” Athos shrugged. “That should be interesting enough.”

 

 

\---

 

 

PARIS STREETS

“Stand where you would usually,” Milady said, her pistol pointing at the unfortunate man who she had threatened days before. “And say nothing to her of me, or I swear you will be dead before you finish your sentence.”

“Yes, yes,” the man said shakily, licking his lips and giving her quick, nervous glances between looking at the door.

 

“I will hide where I can see, and when you have a moment, you must pull the hood back on the cloak. Do you understand?”

“But she will be angry,” the man stammered.

“And I will be angrier,” Milady said with a snarl, gesturing with the pistol, “if you fail.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll do it, I promise-“

“And not a _word_.”

She melted back into the shadows of the next room, hiding herself well enough to be unobserved by someone who was not looking for her.  This poor, stupid man might live to see the end of today, but she found herself more inclined to blow his brains out simply for being so _annoying_ with every moment she was forced to talk to him.

 

The man- his name was apparently Jacques, not that Milady particularly cared- tried to appear busy and involved in his work, but he looked as though he expected to be shot in the back at any moment, his posture stiff and tense as he attempted to sweep a floor that looked like it hadn’t been swept in weeks anyway. She sighed silently to herself, exasperated, and hoped that the mysterious bearer of the pamphlets would not notice.

 

Finally, after what felt like forever and with her knees aching from her uncomfortable position on the floor, Milady heard the door open and a soft voice ask, “Jacques?”

_Oh._

She knew that voice; it inspired bitter, irrational hatred in her, her finger twitching on the pistol’s trigger involuntarily. She narrowed her eyes and shifted her position silently in order to get a better view. There she was, her worn cloak pulled down over her face. She pulled out a bunch of the pamphlets from her bag, tied with string and clearly freshly printed, and handed them over to Jacques, who fumbled them with shaking hands.

“Are you alright?” she asked, sounding concerned.

_Jacques, you had better be a good actor if you wish to breathe tonight._

“I’m quite well,” he tried. “Just doing a little bit of sweeping.” He looked unconvincing even to Milady, who could only see his back, and the cloaked figure hesitated. Milady rolled her eyes and considered just shooting him anyway.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said, and then, “Forgive me.” Before the woman had a chance to respond, he reached out and tugged her cloak back from her head, revealing her face.

 

 

\--

 

 

GARRISON

“I’m going out,” Constance said to Elodie. “Will you and the Doctor be alright for an hour?”

Elodie nodded, shifting the sling over her chest a little, her face flushed and hot from activity.

“Yes,” she said with a brief smile. “Don’t worry about us.” She glanced across to Blanchard who was stitching up a woman’s arm, speaking gently to her.

“Well, at least the wounded seem to be slowing,” Constance sighed. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

She smiled gratefully at Elodie, climbed onto her horse, and checked that the letter for d’Artagnan was still tucked into her dress before galloping off. It had just been brought to her; the messenger had only been able to tell her that it was urgent news from an important source and that it must reach the Captain immediately.

Riding through the streets was not easy; she had to swerve past debris and take back street routes several times in order to avoid trouble. She had brought a pistol and a sword, just in case, but was hoping to avoid using either, her mission this time simply a delivery.

She pulled up her horse in front of a small detachment of Musketeers, who saluted her promptly.

“Have you seen the Captain?”

“He’s with Athos,” one of the Musketeers answered, wiping his forehead. “They were at the refugee camp, last we heard.”

 

Constance thanked them and rode off at a more easy pace, feeling her horse breathing hard underneath her, his ears twitching at the gunfire around them. She gave him a pat on his neck and urged him on, winding her way through the streets in a meandering path that avoided the worst of the riots. She headed for the refugee camp steadily, hoping she could meet them before they left it.

She was disappointed; a surly woman at the gates told her she had missed them by ten minutes, and with a sigh Constance turned in the direction the woman pointed.

 

She trotted through the ruined furniture and the scattered debris of long-standing unrest with her head high and her senses alert, watching for any sign of trouble. Just because she _could_ swing a sword did not mean she wanted to, knowing that against more than one man she would have little to no chance. She had learned to fight to defend herself, not to start trouble.

 

She caught up with them as they stopped to engage a group of rioters who had been attacking a small unit of inexperienced Musketeers. Sliding from her horse, she hung back for a little while, watching Athos and d’Artagnan fight. Athos’ style was a lot different to d’Artagnan’s; he was neat, economical, fighting purely to win and to do it well. His sword was accurate, his stance impeccable- there was clearly a good reason he had often been called the best swordsman in the Musketeers. D’Artagnan had a little of Athos’ accuracy, having spent a lot of time sparring and learning from him, but he was more theatrical, his strokes ending with a flourish and his movement loose and almost careless looking to a casual observer.

The fight wasn’t serious; the rioters losing their nerve quickly when Athos and d’Artagnan joined the fray, and soon they were down to just a few men. Constance itched to join in, her hand resting on her sword hilt but hesitating to draw.

D’Artagnan glanced up, pushing his hair back from his eyes, and smiled at her brilliantly before turning back to the man he was currently engaged with. Athos was fighting two men off, one armed with a pitchfork and the other with a battered old sword.

 

The man fighting d’Artagnan was losing quite spectacularly until a chance blow from his sword caught d’Artagnan in his injured stomach, making him wince and take a step back, grunting. Seeing his chance, d’Artagnan’s opponent raised his blade and was about to slam it down into his chest, when Constance fired her pistol. She didn’t think about it; her sword forgotten, she aimed without even considering the possibility of hitting d’Artagnan, only realising the potential for accident as the rioter fell back, dead.

 

Athos dispatched the two men he was fighting and turned to try and help d’Artagnan, too late. He lowered his sword and nodded at Constance, his breathing hard and his face bleeding.

“Constance,” d’Artagnan said as she approached. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving you, apparently,” she said with some pride, and he smiled at her.

“As usual.”

“Here, this came- it’s urgent.” She pressed the letter into his hand.

He opened the seal and motioned for Athos to come closer as he read it aloud.

 

_Captain –_

_The Declaration of October has been agreed and signed; all active troops will return to Paris forthwith to assist in subduing the rioters. Orders have been given to help in any way possible._

_Negotiations must continue from your side and ours- all will be well._

_M- still suspicious about C- any news? Please inform ASAP._

_Yours, A-_

 

“The treaty,” Athos said musingly. “When is the letter dated?”

“Four days ago,” d’Artagnan noted with a frown. “There should be some troops arriving soon, then.”

“About time,” Constance said with a huff. “What with these riots and the threat of the nobles joining them at any time, we’re outnumbered ten to one.”

“At least,” Athos shrugged. “And we still don’t know where Condé is, or what on earth he’s _doing_ wherever he is.”

“We can win this,” d’Artagnan said with a smile, his easy confidence back. “With their help, we can stop this before it gets worse.”

“I’d hate to see you define _worse,_ my friend,” Athos said with some amusement, patting d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Come on. We have more to do before the day is out.”

“Constance,” d’Artagnan said, taking her hands. “Will you-“

“I’m going back to the garrison, don’t worry,” she sighed, rolling her eyes gently. “I’ll see you later.”

They kissed, and Athos helped her onto her horse before they parted.

 

\---

 

PARIS STREETS

“Shit-“ Porthos growled. “There are a lot of these idiots.”

Aramis laughed, putting himself at Porthos’ back and drawing his sword.

“As ever, you have a natural talent for understatement,” he said. They had found themselves in a warehouse they had believed abandoned- that was, until they had discovered a whole cache of gunpowder and several angry rioters hiding in there. Their group was sorely lacking in men; three had been wounded and sent back to the garrison, and another four were escorting prisoners, leaving Aramis, Porthos, Brujon, Jean, and two others to fight off the unexpected attack. One- Pierre- had fallen already, wounded in the shoulder, and the rest of them were hard pressed to defend themselves.

Jean looked _terrified,_  his chest heaving and his sword arm shaking badly, but he stood firm against the attackers with the others, holding his own in battle and killing or wounding several of them in quick succession. Porthos made a note to give him encouragement if they got out of this.

“We have to do something,” Porthos said through gritted teeth to Aramis behind him as they fought hard and desperately.

“Do let me know when you have a suggestion,” was the drawling reply, Aramis cutting down his man neatly only to be rushed by the next.

“I might have one,” Jean panted from beside Porthos, his eyes glancing quickly to the gunpowder.

“And blow us all to hell?” Porthos grunted.

“No, but they’ll think we might-“ Jean said impatiently, ducking under a sword thrust and kicking the man’s legs out from underneath him, watching in satisfaction as he went sprawling to the floor. He seemed more comfortable in hand to hand combat than with a sword, straddling the man and punching him in the face until he fell unconscious before wiping his hands on his trousers and looking back to Porthos. “I can’t lift the barrel,” he said pointedly.

Porthos understood, and gave Jean a tight grin. “Cover me,” he told him and Aramis, making for the barrels and lifting one above his head threateningly. It was heavy and unwieldy, but Porthos was strong, and he commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

“Move, and I’ll blow us all to hell!” he roared, turning himself towards one of the lamps that lit the warehouse.

“You wouldn’t dare,” one of the rioters said, uncertainly, his eyes darting between Porthos and the lamp. “You’d die too.”

“I’d rather die than let you lot use this gunpowder,” he said seriously. “And if there’s any man here who doesn’t believe me, feel free to make a move. I dare you.” He grinned savagely, all teeth, and it didn’t reach his eyes. The men hesitated.

“Put down your weapons,” Jean said, pointing his sword at them. “There, on the floor.”

“Porthos, don’t do it,” Aramis said, doing a passable impression of being concerned for his life. “Put it down!”

“Stay back,” Porthos shouted, enjoying the game now. “I swear I’ll kill us all before I let these bastards use this.”

“Do as he says,” Aramis said to the rioters, looking frightened.

 

To a man, they lowered their swords and backed off.

 

“Now get _out_!” Porthos ordered, and they scattered like ants.

He dropped the barrel, his arms shaking from the effort of holding it aloft for so long, and sighed in relief as the feeling came rushing back to his hands. Aramis laughed, sheathing his sword and checking on the wounded Pierre, who was able to walk once Aramis had made a makeshift bandage from his shirt and bound the wound tightly.

 

“That was good thinking,” Porthos said to Jean. Jean practically glowed with pride.

“Thanks.”

“And you held your own in that fight, too. I’m sure we can get you a decent start as a cadet.”

Jean smiled. “I’ve been fighting my whole life,” he said with a shrug. “In one way or another.”

Porthos said nothing to the rather cryptic comment, patting the boy- _he’s twenty two, Porthos, not a child-_ on the shoulder approvingly. He liked this one. He had a spark about him, a real ingenuity that their more recent cadets had lacked through no fault of their own. He felt like Treville would have liked him, too; a mental question that Porthos often had when looking at new recruits, whether Treville would have approved of them. He knew that to some extent, the others all felt it as well.

He would tell d’Artagnan that Jean had potential when they got back. Would vouch for his character, if necessary.

“Let’s get out of here,” he grunted.

“What do we do about the gunpowder?” Brujon asked.

“Take it with us, of course,” Porthos smiled, nodding to the cart in the corner of the warehouse. “Let’s hitch a couple of the horses and take it home. The others will be jealous.”

 

\---

 

PARIS STREETS

So it _was_ her.

“What are you doing?” Sylvie hissed, drawing back from Jacques as if she’d been burned and pulling her hood back up hastily.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pathetically, and with a worried, nervous glance around her, Sylvie left the shop in a hurry. Milady waited a beat, and then stepped out of her hiding place, passing Jacques and giving him a withering look.

“You’re disgusting,” she said conversationally. “Give me one of those.”

He handed her a pamphlet; almost exactly the same as the last ones, she noted. She hid it in her dress, pulled up her own hood, and followed Sylvie, leaving Jacques standing stunned and silent behind her.

 

She made it almost laughably easy for someone who knew what they were doing; stopping every few hundred metres, looking around her like a startled deer, she was visible from a fair distance.  Milady kept mostly to the shadows and walked sedately when she could not, her head high and her hands clasped modestly in front of her. In her belt there was a pistol, in her boot she had a knife, and she hid both with her cloak easily, looking for all the world like a noble lady on a pleasant stroll.

 

Sylvie darted between doorways, handing out pamphlets and clearly eager to finish her distribution as quickly as possible, and then headed towards the printing press, still looking around her at every corner as though she expected to be ambushed.

 _Not quite,_ Milady thought with some amusement. She stopped across the street as Sylvie ducked through the door of the press, giving it a few minutes before slipping around the back of the building and finding the rear door unlocked.

She moved silently through the corridor until she could hear the murmur of voices grow louder. She crouched to listen at the door, recognising Sylvie’s excited murmur and adjusting her position to hear better.

 

“I think there was someone watching,” she was saying. “I finished my round and came back.”

“And you were not followed?”

Milady vaguely recognised this voice; a man, and one who she was sure she’d heard before, but she couldn’t place him. She listened again.

“No, I was careful.” _Ha!_

“Good.” There was shuffling, and the sound of other people speaking, but they were too far from the door to make out.

“Print more,” the man said. “We must defame the Cardinal as quickly as possible.”

“And of your plans?“ Sylvie said, but she was hushed quickly.

“I intend to go ahead with the plan,” he confirmed in a low voice. “If we ally ourselves with-“ but he stopped, moved away from the door, and continued in a voice so quiet that Milady could only hear odd words. Frustrated, she bit her lip and searched for a better way, moving down to another door at the other end of the corridor and finding a better angle.

“Regardless of the Treaty being signed, we must move ahead with the plan,” he was saying.

“And of the King?”

“We will deal with him, and the Queen Regent-“

 _I have to know who he is,_ Milady thought with burning curiosity.

 

She weighed her options; she could just walk in and demand answers, point a pistol at anyone she fancied, and assume she would have the means to escape afterwards. She could try to sneak around the front and look into a window- but that was risky, she might be seen from the street by a lookout, she might be seen from inside. She could listen here for longer, and hope someone used a name. But her knees were already stiff, her angle uncomfortable, and they would probably be more careful than that.

She thought for a moment longer, and checked that her pistol was loaded before standing straight once more. _Well, I do like to make an entrance._

She pushed back the hood of her cloak, opened the doors, and entered to room with majestic elegance, lifting her pistol and aiming it at the first person she saw, who happened to be Sylvie.

“Oh, I do hope I’m not interrupting,” she said sweetly, training the gun on Sylvie’s head and feeling quietly satisfied at the way all attention turned to her. “I just thought I’d drop in.”

She looked quickly at the man who had been speaking. It took a few moments, but she recognised him. Condé. She had seen him at the Louvre several times- he had seemed close to the Queen Regent but clearly if he was co-ordinating the pamphlets against Mazarin and the Crown, that had to have been an elaborate lie. She tilted her head to look at him. “Imagine seeing you here.”

He scowled at her, his long face severe and his eyes flashing. “What are you _doing_ here, woman?”

Sylvie, she noted with some glee, was looking terrified, her chest heaving and her eyes darting between the pistol and her face.

Milady took a moment to glance around the room, seeing presses with people hard at work on them, all paused and staring open-mouthed at her. They looked like mostly refugees, and Sylvie’s involvement made sense to her suddenly.

“You incited the refugees to join the riots,” she said wonderingly to Sylvie. “Why? Because you feel wronged by the Crown?”

 

“They are my people,” Sylvie said through gritted teeth. “They have been treated abominably by this Queen and they will fare no better under the little King. Locked in camps, starving and poor, given _hand- outs_ like we are children who ought to be grateful. I heard that there was an uprising in Paris and I came here to help. To do what was right.”

“Yes, that seems like you,” Milady said, her lip curling in disdain. “How selfless you are.” She turned her attention back to Condé, moving the pistol to aim at his head. Unlike Sylvie, he simply looked full of rage and not fear. “My dear Prince,” she said, idly picking up one of the pamphlets lying next to her. “You’ve been causing a lot of trouble for the Queen.”

“I have little loyalty to Anne,” he said in a clipped voice. “And the Cardinal is a disgrace.”

“Still, attempting to bring down an entire monarchy because you don’t like someone is a little petty, don’t you think?” she said with a smile.

“I’ll kill you.”

Milady sighed. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that and how little it actually happens,” she said in a confidential tone. “Except that one time, of course. I can see you moving,” she addressed the last to Sylvie, who was reaching for her own pistol tucked into her belt. “Give me that.”

Sylvie handed over the gun reluctantly, Milady checking it and then pointing it at her head. “I think this is much better, don’t you?” the two of them looked at her silently, and she judged that it was a good time to kill anyone she wanted to kill and then make her exit.

 

She could hardly just kill Condé; the Queen wouldn’t thank her for that and besides, who would believe her word alone without his confession? Sylvie, on the other hand…

She looked at her, at this woman who had appeared from nowhere and stolen her husband from her; who had lied and tricked her way as surely as Milady herself had, into his heart and into his bed. The thought disgusted her, enraged her even though she had no right to be enraged by it. Sylvie had taken everything she thought she could have again- a life with Athos, perhaps stability, finally. Her finger tightened on the trigger. _I’ll kill her. It’s what she deserves, and who will miss a refugee? Just one less mouth to feed._

 

She hesitated, and in that moment, she disgusted herself with the knowledge that she wasn’t going to kill Sylvie. Not that Athos would believe her.

Angrily, she backed out of the room, not lowering her guns until she was out of sight and could run, slipping back into the streets and dropping both guns back onto her belt. She knew where to go.

 

\----

 

GARRISON- EVENING

Porthos and Aramis arrived driving a cart full of barrels of gunpowder, looking pleased with themselves and with Brujon, Jean and the other two riding beside them on tired horses.

“Evening,” Porthos said with a wide grin as he climbed down from the cart and greeted Athos and d’Artagnan. Athos shook his head in amusement, looking at the barrels while taking a long swallow of his wine.

“You brought us a gift,” he said. “How thoughtful.”

“We like to give,” Aramis smiled, passing Athos and giving him a brief embrace. D’Artagnan smiled brilliantly. “That’s enough gunpowder to last us for weeks,” he said. “You two are miracle workers!”

“It was Jean, actually,” Porthos said, jerking his thumb towards the young man who was sliding out of the saddle uncertainly, unsure of how to unhook his feet. When he finally managed to struggle to the ground, Jean passed the reins to Elodie, giving her a charming smile that Elodie returned with a giggle.

“Oi,” Porthos warned, not seriously. “Eyes off my wife.” Jean raised his hands in surrender, laughing, and then winced sharply, grabbing his side.

“Are you alright?” Porthos asked. Jean nodded.

“I’m fine, just a scratch,” he said.

“Good. C’mere.” Jean joined Porthos as he told d’Artagnan and Athos what had happened in the warehouse, including the sword fight and finishing with Jean’s plan to use the barrels against the rioters and the success it had been.

 

Athos nodded silently after Porthos had finished, and then gave Jean a calculating look. D’Artagnan clapped him on the back warmly. “Well done,” he congratulated him. “That was fine thinking.” Jean stood straighter, beaming at the praise.

“I think he’d make a good cadet,” Porthos said after a moment. “A real one, I mean. I’ll vouch for him if need be.”

Athos frowned but said nothing, deferring to his Captain’s wishes. D’Artagnan didn’t hesitate, agreeing with Porthos instantly. Jean looked as though he couldn’t quite believe it, his eyes wide. He bounced gently on the balls of his feet, clearly excited beyond his capability to express in a sensible way.

 

He winced again, suddenly, and d’Artagnan frowned.

“Constance?”

“Yes?” She came running, hearing the note of urgency in her husband’s voice, and he pointed at Jean. “Can you take a look at his wound?”

“Not here-“ Jean said suddenly, looking up in fright at d’Artagnan. “Please, Captain- not in the yard.” He was trembling all over, his hands clenched tightly into fists at his sides.

 

D’Artagnan frowned but shrugged after a long moment, looking at Constance. “Take him inside, then.” Athos said nothing but watched Jean closely as he trailed away after Constance into d’Artagnan’s office, his head down and his posture nervous.

 

“There’s something off about him,” Athos said quietly, taking another drink, but Porthos glared at him.

“Jean fought as bravely as any of us today, Athos,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “He was scared, but he stood with us.”

“So be it,” Athos sighed, gripping Porthos’ shoulder affectionately and wandering over to the bench to sit with Aramis and d’Artagnan.

 

 

“Sit still,” Constance sighed, trying to unbutton Jean’s doublet. “I can’t see your wound if you won’t just-“

“Constance,” Jean whispered, his face ashen and his eyes boring into hers with a desperate intensity. “I can’t. You’ll all- Porthos-“

“Can’t what?” she said, sitting back on her heels and looking at him in confusion. “Don’t be daft. I’ve seen it all before.”

“I don’t think so,” Jean mumbled, but Constance wasn’t deterred.

Eventually, he lowered his arms, defeated, and allowed Constance to take off his doublet and then his shirt. He didn’t look at her, his breathing shallow and fast, his face betraying no emotion as she tried to take a look at the wound.

 

 _Has he been injured recently?_ was Constance’s first thought, met with a swathe of bandages across his chest, wide and tightly bound. She frowned and leaned back, tilting her head at them until something occurred to her that made her suck in a gasp of breath and grab Jean’s shoulders, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Jean, are you a woman?” she said quietly, searching his expression.

Jean shook his head. “I’m _not_ a woman,” he ground out through tightly clenched jaw.

“But-“ Constance said delicately, unsure how to broach the rather obvious problem.

“When I was born,” Jean said with hatred in his voice, “I was given the name Jeanne, and told I was a good little girl.” He swallowed and turned his head from Constance, looking at the floorboards.

“I wasn’t a good _girl._ I couldn’t understand why they kept calling me that.” He picked at his bandages with loathing. “Then _these_ happened and they wanted to marry me off to the first man who showed interest. I ran away, and changed my name.”

He took in a deep breath and glared defiantly at Constance, who almost flinched at the determination and steel in those eyes. “I am not a _woman._ ”

 

Constance didn’t understand, not really. She said nothing for a long few minutes, instead cleaning out the wound on Jean’s side and bandaging it up neatly. Finally, she leaned back and took a breath before she spoke.

“I have to tell d’Artagnan, you know that, don’t you?”

Jean shook his head miserably. “He’ll throw me out. They always throw me out.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But he’ll only find out later if I don’t, and then he’ll be angry that you lied.”

Jean dropped his head into his hands. “I know.”

“Wait there,” she said and patted his shoulder reassuringly as she left.

 _What do I even say?_ she thought to herself as she walked. _Oh by the way, your new cadet has something to get off his chest?_ She groaned to herself and found d’Artagnan, drawing him to one side.

“There’s something you need to know,” she said quietly. D’Artagnan leaned in.

“What is it?”

“Jean is- he _was_ \- I mean-“

“It’s alright,” Jean said, approaching them. He stood in front of d’Artagnan, Athos, Aramis and Porthos looking at him curiously. “I’ll do it.”

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked, curious and becoming a little concerned.

 

Jean allowed his doublet to fall open and show the bandages over his breasts.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Athos ground out, “You’re a _woman?”_ He looked furious, his eyes wild, and Jean took half a step back before his anger. “I told you-“ Athos snarled at Porthos. “I said there was something not right about him- _her-_ I knew it, I knew she couldn’t be trusted- _“_

 _“Him,”_ Constance said firmly, stepping up beside Jean. She may not understand, but Jean seemed to, and Constance was sure it was the right thing to do.

“I’m not a woman,” Jean said, tiredly.

“You were born a woman though,” Aramis said doubtfully. “A girl, yes?”

“They called me a girl when I was born,” Jean said with a shrug. “They were wrong. I don’t know how, but they were wrong.”

“But you have the body of a woman,” Aramis persisted. “Underneath the bandages?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t swing that way, if you’re offering,” Jean said, deadpan.

 

Porthos had been silent, weighing up everything he had just found out. He vaguely recalled there being a few men like Jean in the Court of Miracles- it wasn’t spoken about, but they existed, if his memory served- and so he was a little less rocked by the revelation than the others.

“You should have told me,” he said to Jean, quietly. “I vouched for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

 

Athos looked between Jean and d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan stood silently, thinking, trying to find a way around this in his head.

“Women can’t be in the Musketeers,” Aramis pointed out, and Constance raised an eyebrow at him. “But we’re fine to run a garrison, is that right?” she asked. ”Or a _country,_ for example _?”_ Aramis coloured and fell silent.

 

“Does anyone else know?” d’Artagnan asked Jean at length. Jean shook his head.

“Button up that doublet, then.” He hurried to obey, confused. D’Artagnan looked around him at his friends.

“What should we do?”

It was Porthos who answered first, grudgingly. “I vouched for him,” he said. “And I still do. Whatever he is, he fought bravely, cleverly, and gained us an advantage. You don’t need a dick to do that, in my opinion.”

D’Artagnan nodded, and turned to Aramis, who took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “He did fight well today,” he agreed. “But Jean, you are- you _were_ , perhaps, but to me-“ he stuttered, shook his head, and replaced his hat. “Whatever you decide, Captain,” he said eventually, “I will agree with. I cannot make a decision. I am sorry, Jean.”

“Athos?”

“She-“ he spat out, and then forced himself into a correction at Constance’s glare. “He lied to us all.”

“Is that your only objection?”

“No. I have many objections.” He fell silent and took another drink of his wine before continuing. “But,” he sighed. “Against my better judgment…she- _he_ is a fine swordsman and we have precious few recruits as it is. Perhaps it would be a waste to lose another. In the current circumstances.”

D’Artagnan nodded again, rubbing his face with his hands. “Constance, I take it you’re with Jean?”

“I am.”

 

“Jean, do you have anything to say?”

“I know you’re all thinking of me as a woman now,” he sighed, his hat in his hands and his head held high, “but you didn’t when you first saw me. You accepted that I was a man because I _am_ , and it shouldn’t matter what I have under my uniform unless you plan to bed me.” He paused, seeming to calculate the mood, and then gave a hesitant, charming grin. “Which is unlikely. I like women as much as the next man. So you’re all safe, but your ladies might not be.” He winked at Constance.

Porthos shook his head with a smile, and even Aramis relaxed a little despite himself. Athos remained silent, drinking steadily and watching them all with wary eyes.

 

“So. I’ll go, if you want. I expected it. But thank you for letting me fight with you today.”

D’Artagnan glanced at the others and then at Constance, and let out a long, sighing breath. “You can stay. For now.”

Jean nodded sadly and began to take off his uniform.

“He said you can stay,” Constance whispered.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Really?”

 

D’Artagnan nodded, and Jean broke into a sunny grin. He replaced his hat at a rakish angle, smoothed out the feather, and bowed deeply to them all, the feather almost touching the ground.

“I will be the best Musketeer in the regiment,” he promised, and d’Artagnan was amused to hear so much of himself, years ago now, in Jean’s enthusiasm.

“Try just being the best cadet,” d’Artagnan smiled despite his misgivings. “Go on.” He dismissed him, and then sat at the bench with the others heavily, reaching for the wine.

 

“Today keeps getting more interesting.”

“Hmm?” Porthos inquired, breaking out of his thoughts to look at the Captain.

“The Declaration of October has officially been signed,” Athos supplied. “Troops will be returning to Paris and perhaps we can get this mess under control.” D’Artagnan handed the letter over to Aramis, who read it with an air of relief.

 

“That’s good, then,” he said finally. “The Queen will be able to return soon, if all goes well.”

“It would be best if she remained at Saint-Germain for the moment,” Athos warned. “Mazarin is still a target.”

Aramis agreed gloomily.

“I know you miss them,” Porthos said with a reassuring hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “But it isn’t safe.”

 

\--

 

GARRISON

Hoofbeats echoed through the gate of the garrison, the Musketeers and Constance turning curiously to see a horse galloping through, its rider hooded and bent low over the animal’s neck. It pulled up short, the rider sliding from the saddle and pushing the hood from their face. Athos went pale as he recognised Milady. He stood as if automatically, the others following his lead, and went to her quickly, feeling himself shaking but not sure why.

 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded right away, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“You do keep asking me that,” Milady said. “It doesn’t occur to you that I actually have a life outside of you, does it?”

She sighed and turned to d’Artagnan. “I need to write to the Queen, immediately. Do you know where she is?”

“Why?”

Impatiently, she folded her arms. “You could perhaps say please.” D’Artagnan shrugged, folding his own arms and waiting for an answer.

“If you must know, I have urgent information to share with the Queen and the Cardinal – information that could stop the riots,” she explained irritably, seeing she was getting nowhere. “However, nobody thought to tell me a forwarding address when they left Paris, and so I am at your rather dubious mercy-“ she glanced at Athos – “in order to ensure she receives the information.”

 

She looked back to d’Artagnan, calculating. “Treville didn’t waste so much time,” she said pointedly.

“Aramis knows the address,” d’Artagnan said finally, nodding towards him. “But you will write the letter here, where we can see it.”

“Then bring me paper and ink,” she said, sitting at the bench and sweeping the debris of dinner out of her way. She picked up a grape and chewed it thoughtfully while she waited for Constance to come back.

“What is the information?” Athos asked, curious despite himself and hovering near her as though needing to be close. She looked up at him briefly and then dropped her eyes.

“You won’t believe me,” she said, her voice hollow. Athos sat opposite her at the table, leaning across.

“Tell me.” His eyes were wide and earnest, his hand hesitating mere inches from her own as if desperate to touch her. “Please.”

“Athos, how can we trust anything she says?” d’Artagnan frowned.

Athos glanced up to d’Artagnan. “She hasn’t lied yet.”

_Did he just defend me?_

Milady hesitated, and then reached her fingers out over the last inch of table, touching Athos’ fingertips silently. The contact sent a jolt through both of them, Athos’ eyes dark and intense. He recalled their kiss under that tree, remembered the smell of her hair, and found himself staring at her lips, distracted.

Constance dropped the inkwell and some paper in front of Milady and stood back with d’Artagnan, watching her.

“I found out who is behind the pamphlets,” she said after a calculating look around. “It’s being orchestrated by Condé; he’s the one ordering their printing. That was what the Queen sent me to find out- and why I was in Pinon,” she added to Athos, who nodded his understanding.

“So it _was_ Condé,” Aramis said.

“We thought he was up to something,” Porthos said to Milady. “He disappeared when the riots began.”

 

“Well,” Milady continued, hesitating as to whether she should say the next part, “I was given permission to dispose of anyone found conspiring against Mazarin, in any way I saw fit.”

“Who else did you find?” d’Artagnan asked.

 “It seems the refugees have been swayed,” she said, and Athos nodded impatiently.

“Yes, we know that much.”

“Including Sylvie.”

There was a silence that seemed to stretch for hours, everyone staring at Athos, until finally, Athos blinked, and very quietly said, “Sylvie’s in Paris?”

“She was the one distributing the pamphlets- and she incited the refugees into rioting with the others. Athos, I-“

“And,” Athos said, colour rising in his cheeks and his voice shaking with anger, “Did you dispose of her, too?”

Milady bit back the biting lie she wanted to say- _yes, and she deserved it!_ \- and shook her head.

“I swear, Athos. I didn’t hurt her.”

Athos stood suddenly, pulling his hand back from her as if burned and calling for his horse to be brought to him.

Milady watched in anger and despair as he swung into the saddle.

_He never believes me._

“You,” he spat back to her, “write that letter.” Then he galloped off, digging his heels into his horse’s side.

 

\---

 

PARIS STREETS

The problem was, he _did_ believe her. It sounded exactly like something Sylvie would do; the cause would be just, in her mind, and her people in danger. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to help.

 

He rode as quickly as he could through the winding streets and the crowds, shouting at people to get out of the way impatiently as he picked his way towards the refugee camp, assuming that would be where she was staying if she was back here.

 _She didn’t tell me. Where is Isabelle?_ He was furiously, _dangerously_ angry. Partly, it was at himself; he should have expected this, should have assumed she would haunt him. He had begun to accept his decision to leave her, had just started to pick up the pieces of his life- he should have known it wouldn’t last.

But partly, he was just angry that Isabelle had been brought into danger. Sylvie didn’t have the right to endanger _her_ for the sake of a cause.

“Let me through,” he ordered the guard at the gate, and his fury was so palpable that the man stepped aside instantly, frightened. He galloped into the square wildly, slid from his horse before it had even stopped moving, and bellowed her name.

 

There was silence, a silence in which all he could hear was his heartbeat, his harsh breathing, and the crowing of a cockerel from somewhere to his left.

 

“Athos?”

He turned, his hands clenched into tight fists, his teeth gritted.

“Sylvie.”

She stood hesitantly in front of him, holding Isabelle in her arms like a shield between them.

“What,” Athos asked, his voice low and dangerous, “are you _doing_ here, Sylvie.”

“Helping my people,” she replied with a defiant lift of her chin. “Just as you are.”

“You brought our child into a war,” he snarled, shaking his head. “How could you even _think_ that that was a good idea?”

“I had nowhere else to take her. She stays here when I am out of the camp.”

“And if you never came back? If you were killed? What then?”

“Then they would look after her.”

“She is not _theirs_ to raise, Sylvie.”

“She is not yours to raise anymore, either! You left us. It is none of your business where we live.”

 

Athos bit his tongue, forcing himself to calm down.

“It’s dangerous here,” he said after a moment.

“It’s dangerous everywhere. Here I have friends.”

“You’re committing treason- they’ll have you hanged.”

“I’m sure you would shed a tear or two and then move on,” she said bitterly. “My work here is done, regardless.”

“Then get out,” he almost whispered. “Leave Paris. Go somewhere- anywhere- that they won’t find you. Take Isabelle somewhere safe, or they’ll arrest you when they come for Condé.”

 

“Oh. So she’s working for you, now,” Sylvie said reflectively, with a mirthless laugh. “I should have realised.”

“She isn’t working for me.”

“With you, then,” she shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you found her again, Athos,” she said, and suddenly she looked sincere and not angry, her expression open and a small smile at the corners of her mouth. “I truly am.”

“I shouldn’t have left Paris,” he said, and his own anger drained from him. “I was wrong, and I hurt you. I can’t be anything but _this_.” He gestured to his uniform, almost angrily.

“You can,” she observed, looking at him carefully, “But not with me.”

He frowned at her, his shoulders slumping, defeated. He didn’t know how to say sorry for everything, he didn’t know how not to resent her for things he couldn’t even articulate, he didn’t know how to say goodbye without it being insincere and bitter. Instead, he took a step closer.

“Can I hold her?”

 

Sylvie smiled, wider this time, and handed over his daughter. He looked down at her in perplexed silence, holding her carefully. She was sleeping, making little snuffling noises and slowly clenching and unclenching her hands.

“She’s grown already.”

“They do at this age. She’ll be crawling soon.”

“Then she’ll be trouble.” Athos gave her back in quiet relief; he loved his daughter, but he was by no means a natural father, always awkward and vaguely terrified around babies.

“There should be more money waiting for you at home,” he said, pulling out his purse and handing it to her. “But this should take care of you both until you get it.”

Sylvie took the money without objecting, seemingly realising that Athos needed her to for his own sake.

“You can always visit her,” Sylvie said softly. “I promise I won’t make a scene.”

 

Athos nodded, standing awkwardly in front of her and realising there was nothing more he had to say to her; that whatever they had had, it had slipped away long before she had found that glove, before he started drinking again- it had gone quietly and unobtrusively from them somewhere along the way, leaving them both relatively unharmed in its wake and making all of this guilt, this bitterness, unnecessary and ridiculous.

 

It felt like a weight was lifted from him, and he found he was able to smile at Sylvie with genuine warmth. He reached out to her, embracing her slightly awkwardly because of Isabelle, and kissed her forehead.

“I’ll visit you both,” he told her. “Take care of yourselves.”

“We always do.” She paused, and added, “Your wife- she didn’t hurt me, you know. I don’t know if she said anything, but-“ she shrugged eloquently. “Anyway. Goodbye, Athos. Be happy, please?”

Athos nodded. “Goodbye.”

 

He returned to his horse feeling as though he’d lost a dark cloud from his head.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

When he rode back into the garrison, Aramis was sealing the letter carefully, a cadet waiting beside him to take the letter as quickly as he could, a fresh horse waiting for him and a purse of coins ready for when he returned. Milady looked up at him when he got down from the saddle, her face unreadable. She turned away from him as he put his horse away.

The others drifted from the table; Porthos went to help Elodie, Constance and d’Artagnan suddenly found they had paperwork to finish, and Aramis, after handing the letter over, excused himself and went to his rooms.

 

“You’ll never believe me, will you,” she said without looking at him, her fingers tapping the wood of the table. She sounded defeated, wooden, as though she expected to be cast aside again at any moment.

Athos hesitated.

“I did believe you.”

He cursed himself silently. Why was it so difficult for him to give her so little? Why did he have to force out anything that wasn’t in anger?

She looked up at him questioningly, her eyes big and uncertain. “Then why-“

He sat at the table with her, pulling a bottle of wine towards himself and taking a drink.

“I had to say goodbye,” he said simply, staring at the bottle and sloshing the liquid inside gently.

Milady sat silently, digesting that for a moment.

“And did you?” _Do you even know how to say goodbye?_

Athos nodded, raising his eyes to hers with a small, half-smile. She frowned at him, searching his gaze, and then gave him a hesitant smile back.

Athos cherished that smile; it was sweet and real and made his heart ache with a tenderness he hadn’t been sure he still possessed after so long.

 

The light was fading now, the cadets lighting the lamps around the yard and bathing them in a golden glow, and Athos was on the brink of asking her to stay longer- a terrible, shaking terror in his limbs and his heart at the thought, his tongue leaden with fear and the painful realisation of all that meant, because if she stayed longer then it would inevitably lead to staying the _night_ and then-- when she, seeming to sense the question and as scared of her answer as he was, stood briskly, smoothing down her dress. “I should leave,” she said. “I still have work to do.”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice rough. The air between them was charged and thunderous, like a storm about to break, and it was with difficulty that she pulled away from it and from his burning gaze.

“Goodnight.” She turned, letting out a shaky breath, and allowed a cadet to assist her onto her horse- she couldn’t let him; if he touched her, she would be lost.

She trotted out of the yard without looking back. Her whole body was thrumming with energy, her heart racing, and the thrill of that unspoken question hung over her. He was about to ask her to stay, she was sure of it; after everything-

She allowed herself a smile as she rode through the gathering dusk.

 

Athos dragged himself to bed with the air of a much drunker man than he was, his head reeling with the knowledge that something had shifted between them and couldn’t be shifted back if they tried.

 

 

\---

 

GARRISON- NEXT EVENING

“The Queen Regent replied to Milady’s letter,” Aramis called up to the office. D’Artagnan and Constance came out to lean over the balcony. Porthos and Athos were already there; the day had been long and exhausting, some of the army having arrived back in Paris already and requiring orders,  and they were all leaning against whatever they could find, sweating and sore. Athos had been drinking since he got back to the garrison.

Porthos was standing in the shade under the office balcony, holding Marie-Cezette and leaning against the wall while Elodie made faces at the baby and Porthos in turn.

“Read it,” d’Artagnan nodded. “And someone give that cadet a drink.”

The cadet who had delivered the letter took a bottle from Athos gratefully. He was filthy from the road, sweaty, and shaking with exhaustion as he made his way to the barracks. Aramis patted him on the shoulder as he passed. “Well done.”

 

_A-_

_Condé must be stopped; consider this your official warrant for his arrest. Take him to the Bastille. M- is grateful for your service and your information; he suspects more is to come and wishes it to be done quickly, today if possible, before he can gather resistance._

_Tell the lady M- that her service is commendable and she will receive her pay when I return,_

_Yours, as always_

_A-_

 

“Today?” Porthos groaned. “It’s already after six.” He gave the child back to Elodie with a reluctant frown, kissing them both.

“Then we have a few hours of daylight,” Athos stated, pushing himself from the wall and finishing the wine. He dropped the bottle back onto the table and rolled his shoulders with a grunt, trying to get rid of the worst of the stiffness.

 

D’Artagnan kissed Constance briefly and joined them in the yard. “No time to lose, then,” he sighed. There was a streak of dirt over his nose and his cheeks were grubby. He wiped a sleeve over his face hurriedly and then gave up.

Aramis pocketed the letter and replaced his hat.

“Should we take any of our men?”

D’Artagnan thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Bring any decent swordsman we have who isn’t exhausted or injured from today,” he told Porthos. “At least we have some soldiers to spare, now; there must be at least a thousand men back in Paris that we were sorely missing.” Porthos nodded and went to fetch some cadets.

 

“If they keep coming in at this rate,” Aramis said hopefully, “We’ll have enough men to take back the whole of the city within the month. Possibly within two weeks.”

“The problem is, the treaty was exactly what we needed a few months ago,” d’Artagnan shrugged. “I wonder if it’s still in time.” Aramis didn’t reply, thinking much the same himself.

 

Porthos grinned, returning with Brujon, Jean, and ten other cadets who hadn’t been too tired to join them. “I kicked a few out of bed,” he said, “but they’ll do.”

“Let’s go then.”

They mounted up and headed off into the city.

 

\--

 

PARIS STREETS

Condé was easy enough to find; clearly spooked by Milady’s appearance yesterday, he had barricaded himself in a corner of a small street, surrounded by men with muskets and pistols. They were clearly not ordinary rioters; they were well armed, well trained, and alert. The Musketeers stopped just shy of their range and hidden around a corner, and deliberated amongst themselves.

“He’s really wedged himself in there,” Aramis noted with a frown.

Porthos eyed the barricades and then the buildings surrounding them.

“Could go over the top.”

“That would be suicide,” Athos said shortly.

“You don’t think it would work?”

“Oh no, please do carry on,” Athos shrugged. “I just thought I should mention.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes tolerantly at Athos and squinted up where Porthos was looking.

“It’s possible,” he mused. “If we can get to the top of the buildings without being seen, we could drop over the barricades and into their defences.”

“So we send maybe half of us over that way, and then the others can jump over the barricades when they’re distracted,” Porthos suggested.

“It seems as likely as anything,” Aramis said to d’Artagnan. “I don’t have a better idea. Athos?”

Athos shook his head and gave a half-smile to d’Artagnan. “Suicide it is.”

“Oh, do lighten up,” Aramis tutted with a smile. “We may survive with minimal maiming.”

 

D’Artagnan split their group- the four of them and Jean would go through the buildings, and Brujon would lead the cadets over the top of the barricade when it was safer to do so.

They slipped into the nearest building and climbed the stairs as quietly as possible; the houses on this street were all close together, and once they managed to clamber onto the roof of one of them- not an easy task, Porthos having to drag the others up one at a time once he had managed to pull himself up by sheer force of will- they could duck low against the rooftops and move towards the barricades easily, stepping between the small gaps of each house.

Jean proved surprisingly adept at this; where Porthos had to be slow and careful not to slide right down the side of the building, Jean’s short stature and his small frame was an asset. Athos clung grimly to the roof without looking down, almost on all fours in his attempt to stay stable and regretting the wine. Aramis and d’Artagnan found it the easiest out of the four, their natural grace helping them. Aramis made sure to give Porthos a smug grin as he passed, avoiding the swipe of Porthos’ fist easily.

 

They crouched over the edge of the last roof, Athos closing his eyes for a moment to avoid being sick, and took stock of the situation. The drop wasn’t huge; they could make it without being injured assuming they could land on the men guarding Condé- which was exactly what Porthos intended to do. D’Artagnan signalled to the others and they  got ready to drop.

 

“The roof!” came the cry, and Porthos swore. They had been spotted. No time to think; he drew his sword, picked an unfortunate man, and lowered himself to the edge, dropping onto the poor soul’s head. He went crashing to the ground under Porthos with a _whoomf_ of air and a crunch that was his leg breaking. Mercifully, he fell unconscious, and Porthos picked himself up quickly, his sword already up and ready.

He heard the others dropping beside him, and the screams of the guards as Brujon led the cadets over the barricades to join them, and grinned tightly as he started to fight in earnest, his sword flashing in the evening sun.

Porthos fought with steady, inexorable strength, his style direct and hard-hitting, beating down his opponent through sheer force until they could stand against him no longer. He had never understood those who danced around and stayed at the edges of a swordfight; he preferred to make a show of strength right away. Often, that alone intimidated the other fighter enough that he could win within moments, and when it didn’t, Porthos relished a solid match.

 

He cut his way through several men, noting Athos at his left, fighting with his usual focus even though his face looked a little pale. Jean was to his right, using a mixture of sword and fists and seemingly enjoying himself.

Another man down, and Porthos pulled his sword from the corpse and moved on grimly. He could see Condé backed up against a wall, his sword drawn, and he went for him remorselessly, intending to wound him enough to stop him resisting.

He reached Condé just as the others did, all of them breathing hard and bleeding. As if it had been planned, four swords raised to the Prince’s throat, Condé glancing between them as if looking for the weak link and finding none.

 

For a moment, it looked as though Condé intended to fight them all. His sword still raised, he turned a little, his blade clacking against the four of theirs as if he was going to knock them aside. His face showed no fear, his severe, hawk-like expression haughty as ever and his lip curled in disdain.

“You think four of you would be enough if I chose to resist?” he asked, and Porthos shrugged. _I’m not sure it would be,_ he thought, having seen Condé fight in the field.

“We can always find out,” d’Artagnan said seemingly cheerfully. “I like our odds, personally.”

Condé hesitated at the self-assurance in d’Artagnan’s face. After a long silence, he lowered his sword with a noise of disgust.

“Bind him,” d’Artagnan ordered, and Aramis obeyed quickly, the Prince making no move to resist but looking at them all with ill-disguised fury.

 

“Now, would you like to be thrown over the back of my horse like a trophy,” d’Artagnan asked pleasantly when they were clear of the barricades, “or do you think you can manage to behave on a horse of your own?”

“I can follow,” Condé said through gritted teeth.

“Help him onto a horse,” d’Artagnan told Brujon and Jean, and they worked together to bundle him onto one awkwardly.

“If you try to escape,” d’Artagnan continued conversationally, “We will hunt you down and break your legs so you can’t sit a horse.”

Condé said nothing, and the Musketeers climbed onto their own horses and rode surrounding him so that he couldn’t break free of their ranks.

 

“I will have my vengeance,” the Prince said as they arrived at the Bastille. Aramis presented the guards with the warrant for Condé’s arrest and handed him over to them.

Porthos shrugged. “You and a thousand others,” he said, shoving Condé in through the doors.

“I won’t be here for long,” was the Prince’s final words over his shoulder.

 

\---

 

GARRISON-NEXT MORNING

“Why aren’t we out already?”

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos who was hurrying across the yard, pulling his doublet on and blinking sleep from his eyes. “I thought you’d all gone off and left me.”

“More soldiers arrived overnight,” d’Artagnan explained, eating an apple. “So I thought we could have a late start while they get on with it.”

 

“I’d hardly call eight in the morning late,” Athos grunted from where he was slouched over the table.

“Compared to six, it’s late,” d’Artagnan said, kicking Athos’ leg lightly. Athos made a sound that wasn’t quite a word and picked up some grapes, eating them mechanically one after the other.

Aramis was obnoxiously awake, sparring with Jean in the yard already. He yelled a greeting at Porthos as he saw him go by.

“He’s in a good mood,” Porthos observed as he sat at the table opposite Athos. “Leave me some of those grapes, you greedy bastard.”

Athos very deliberately popped the last grape into his mouth and chewed slowly, all the while making insolent eye contact with Porthos.

“You little shit,” he laughed despite himself, and Athos gave him a wicked flash of a smile before turning away.

 

Jean and Aramis came over, panting, and the others shoved over to let them sit, Athos hesitating for a long moment before nodding to Jean and moving along the bench for him. Jean sat down gratefully, and reached for some bread.

“Jean,” Athos said awkwardly, suddenly aware of eyes on him and desperately wishing he hadn’t said anything. _Can’t stop now,_ he thought irritably.

“Yes?”

“You were within your rights not to say anything,” he finished, looking away quickly and taking a long swallow of wine. _It’s not your fault I hate being lied to._ If he admitted it, it wasn’t _her_ fault either. It was his, and he should probably stop using it as an excuse.

He wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

 

Jean let out a breath and relaxed visibly, nodding at Athos. “Thanks.” Then he carried on like nothing had happened, stuffing bread into his mouth eagerly like he hadn’t eaten in days, and Athos felt the mood shift back to normal.

He took another drink and smiled to himself.

 

  


	6. EPISODE SIX: "MASQUERADE"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slight delay with this- I spent an hour looking at 17th century french dances and alternatively laughing my butt off and pulling out my hair because they all look ridiculous. By the time I was done, I was too tired to /write/ the damn thing and put it off till this morning.
> 
> On the plus side, I'm STILL not as late as the BBC are with showing season 3, so count yourselves lucky ;-)
> 
> This chapter brings the milathos to the yard. Hold onto your hats because they aren't done with this crap yet. Anyone remember Pauline, by the way? We left her crying in a courtyard and never returned to her.  
> Okay so: vague sex scene in this chapter. All historical innaccuracies are still my fault & mostly deliberate. Some headcanons re: milathos are shared with shadow-in-the-shade (partner) who is also writing milathos on here. It's 3am and I'm exhausted. This episode is light hearted, mostly. I feel like every series needs one. Enjoy!

 

EPISODE SIX: MASQUERADE

 

 

GARRISON

“I thought Condé’s arrest would quieten things down,” Porthos grumbled over breakfast. He snatched the last apple out of Athos’ reach and crunched it decisively.

“So did I,” d’Artagnan sighed, reading the dispatch. “But apparently not.”

Aramis leaned against the stairs with his arms folded. “It seems that the provinces are somewhat annoyed that we arrested Condé.”

“Why do they care?” Porthos asked, mid bite.

“Porthos, don’t speak with your mouth full,” Aramis tutted with amusement.

“Who knows?” D’Artagnan shrugged. “Clearly he was more involved with this whole revolt than we knew- he has friends in many places and they are demanding his release.”

“Surely Her Majesty won’t back down?” Athos asked.

“If there is enough pressure, she may have to,” Aramis frowned. “There is talk of open revolt in the surrounding areas- people disrupting taxation, barricades, fighting in the streets- all to protest Condé’s arrest. The Crown is still in danger from him, even though he is in the Bastille.”

“And if he is released, and allies with those nobles who wish for complete reform, and the officers of the Parlement…” he trailed off.

“Then there could be trouble,” Athos finished shortly.

“There’s already trouble,” d’Artagnan said, folding up the paper and handing it to Constance. “But more soldiers arrive every day, so at least Paris is under control for the moment. We’ll send some of them out to the provinces, they can deal with them.”

 

“What we need,” Aramis mused, “is evidence that Condé is more deeply involved with the provincial rebellions. That he is orchestrating them, or at least that he stirred up the nobles into action.”

“Then we can persuade the Queen to keep him in prison,” d’Artagnan agreed. “If we prove that this is his fault, too-“

“He’ll rot,” Athos nodded.

 

“We may already have a solution,” Constance said with a glance at her husband. He suppressed a smile and inclined his head in agreement, his eyes fixed above the other’s heads as he attempted to keep a straight face.

“Well, what is it?” Porthos asked impatiently. “Who are we fighting?”

“We’re not fighting anyone,” d’Artagnan replied cryptically. He looked back at Constance, who explained.

“There is a ball being held in Burgundy, a few days from now,” she said, drawing a letter from her dress and unfolding it. “And several key nobles have been invited.”

“There should be plenty of information being talked about,” d’Artagnan interjected. “You know nobles can’t resist prying into political affairs.”

Athos raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

“Anyway,” Constance continued. “We think it would be helpful if someone went along to the ball, did a bit of listening-“

“Eavesdropping,” Athos said flatly.

“Exactly,” Constance said with a grin that lit up her whole face. “And brought whatever information they could find back with them. About Condé, or anyone else.”

 

“What poor bastard has to do that?” Athos grunted. “You’d need someone who knew how to behave, someone who could pass for nobility- someone-“ he paused, wide-eyed, realising that both Constance and d’Artagnan were barely holding it together. “No. Oh, no, no _no-“_

“Oh, yes,” d’Artagnan laughed outright. “And that’s an order.” He looked inordinately pleased with himself, trying to hide his smirk behind his hand and failing. Constance was managing only slightly better.

Athos groaned and dropped his head to the table, closing his eyes. “I hate you. Both of you.”

“We already sent a letter announcing that you would be attending,” d’Artagnan continued, and Athos opened one eye.

“As who?”

“The Comte de la Fère, of course,” Constance supplied. Athos looked pained and closed his eyes again, reaching for the wine bottle.

“This cannot be happening.”

“There’s more,” d’Artagnan said, almost apologetically but still smiling.

Athos sighed deeply, raising his head to stare at d’Artagnan and taking a long swallow of wine. “Go on.”

“Well, you could hardly go without a Comtess. As far as they know, you’re married.”

Porthos was roaring with laughter, holding his sides and almost in tears with amusement. Athos felt an icy trickle of dread run through him.

“Who,” he said, very calmly, “did you have in mind?”

 

“Me.”

Athos didn’t need to turn around to know that it was Milady stood behind him. He looked down at the table silently.

_They think this is funny? They think that putting us together- making us play at being in love and nauseatingly happy- is a plan? It’s not anything but sadistic-_

“I refuse to go anywhere with her,” he said, tonelessly, not looking up.

“Too late,” she said from behind him. “I agreed already and they’re expecting us both.” She sounded gleeful. Athos took another drink, his hands shaking with anger.

_I can’t be around her like that. Not anymore. We had everything, and I ruined it. I can’t pretend-_

“We need this information,” d’Artagnan said. “You’re the only one who can do it. None of us could pass for nobility like you.”

He knew that d’Artagnan was right, and knew that it made sense- twisted, awful sense- for Milady to be the one to go with him.

Slowly, without raising his eyes from the bottle, he nodded. “Fine.”

Porthos howled with laughter, clearly finding the whole situation hilarious, until d’Artagnan spoke again.

 

“I don’t know why you’re laughing, Porthos. You’re going to be pretending to be their servant.”

“Get lost,” Porthos laughed, not believing him. “I’m no servant.”

“You are for the next few days.”

“What- really? D’Artagnan, come on, you know that’s not-“

“Do you think they’d believe that Aramis was a servant? He dresses better than half of the nobility and he’s slept with the other half, they’d recognise him. Besides, he needs to be here to stay in contact with Her Majesty.”

“Are you saying I don’t dress well?”

“I’m saying that you’re more believable.”

“What about you?”

“I have to stay here,” d’Artagnan pointed out. “I’m Captain, remember.”

Porthos grunted angrily, glaring at Aramis who was looking innocent and not meeting his eyes.

“Fine,” he huffed. “But I’m not having them order me around.”

“Do you actually know what a servant is _for?_ ” Milady asked sweetly, and even Athos had to smile. He looked up finally, twisting around on the bench to Milady and nodding at her. She looked beautiful, her hair loose and her dress a deep, vibrant blue; Athos felt his chest tighten just looking at her and had to drop his eyes quickly.

“When do we need to set off?” Athos asked d’Artagnan, resigned.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Have you made all of the arrangements?”

“Constance has.”

Athos grunted in acknowledgment. “I want you all to know,” he said distinctly, “That I hope you all rot in hell.” He raised his bottle in salute, and dragged himself to his feet. “I’m going to my rooms.”

“Wait a minute,” d’Artagnan said. “Come with me.”

 

Frowning, Athos followed d’Artagnan to his office, shutting the door behind them and standing awkwardly while d’Artagnan lifted a small lockbox onto his desk and opened it.

“Look,” he began, hesitantly. “I don’t know if you want this, but I picked it up after you dropped it-“

He reached into the box and held something out to Athos in his closed fist.

“-And I couldn’t find the right time to give you it back, after what happened with the crossroads,” d’Artagnan was continuing. Athos reached for d’Artagnan’s hand and felt him press something cool into his palm. He felt like he was underwater, everything far away and distorted; he recognised the curve and the engraving and the weight of the object in his hand, without even looking at it.

“You kept this all that time?” he said, his voice broken. _That was five years ago._

D’Artagnan nodded, looking anxious. “I didn’t think you’d want to lose it, not really. Not after what you told me when your house burned down.”

Athos swallowed thickly, opening his fingers and feeling his heart skip a beat even though he’d known what it would be.

 

The locket- _Anne’s_ locket- gleamed up at him on its chain. Numbly, he opened it and ran his thumb over the tiny flower pressed inside, remembering how his thumb had made the exact same gesture every morning for five years, the daily, self-inflicted reminder of his misery.

 

“Why now?” he asked, lifting his eyes to d’Artagnan, who was shocked to see them gleaming with unshed tears, his nostrils flaring as he fought to keep control.

“You seemed to be- with- her again,“ he gestured helplessly. “And I thought it might be useful, if you’re pretending to be…”

Athos nodded and without comment, he slipped the chain over his neck and settled the locket into his shirt. It felt as though he had never taken it off, the weight comforting and cool against his chest.

He went to leave, and paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“Thank you,” he said over his shoulder, glancing at d’Artagnan. “For keeping it. You’re a true friend.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Of course.”

Athos paused again.

“I still hate you, though.”

 

He left with d’Artagnan’s laughter ringing behind him.

 

“What did he want?” Milady asked as he passed her in the yard. He shrugged, and kept walking, Milady following him towards his rooms at a trot. “You could at least wait for me.”

 

“Why?” he asked, not looking at her.

“We have things to discuss.”

He huffed out a short laugh, opening his door and gesturing for her to enter before him. “Please, after you,” he said, sarcastically.

She entered rolling her eyes, and he slammed the door behind them. She perched on the one chair in the room, watching him warily as he moved around the place and gathered empty bottles into a crate, shoving them under the table out of the way.

“Drink?” he said after making a lot of noise.

“Please.”

“I haven’t got any glasses.”

“Just give me the damn bottle,” she sighed, and he handed it over wordlessly. They eyed each other, Athos sat on the bed and her on the lonely chair, and neither spoke for a long moment. The smell of jasmine hung around them like an uninvited guest, heady and sweet.

“This wasn’t my idea, you know,” she said eventually. “There’s no need to give me that look.”

 

Athos shrugged. “I’m sure you loved it.”

“Yes, I do enjoy being dragged to a party with the man who tried to hang me,” she said acidly. “It’s every woman’s dream.”

“I have no doubt that you will play your part admirably.”

She took a long swallow and handed the bottle back to Athos.  He watched her throat move as she drank, the elegant curve of her neck and the way her lips pursed around the top of the bottle, and felt himself flush.

“You said you wanted to discuss something with me,” he said to distract himself.

“Yes.” She paused. “Well, not _discuss_ , exactly.” With a flourish, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a large, terrifying pair of scissors.

Athos eyed her nervously, his hand drifting to his sword. “What the hell are those for?”

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said. “I’m cutting that hair. You look disgusting.”

Athos stood, glancing behind him for a way out.

 

 

\--

 

From outside, the commotion was a little dulled; Aramis and Porthos looked up from their card game as they heard a loud crash and the shattering of glass, followed by Athos yelling “Get the hell away from me, woman!” and the reply of “Stay _still_ or I’ll cut your ear off!” There was a short silence, and then more hollering and another bang, followed quickly by the unmistakable sound of a slap, after which all was quiet except a despairing groan.

 

“They seem to be getting along,” Aramis observed, picking up his cards again.

“If that’s well, I’d hate to hear them _not_ getting on.”

D’Artagnan appeared in the doorway of his office, concerned. “Did you hear that?”

“It appears your matchmaking attempt has worked,” Aramis squinted up at him with a grin, shading his eyes with his hat.

“Or failed messily,” Porthos muttered, dealing.

D’Artagnan shook his head and came down to the yard to play. Elodie was practising with her bow, Constance watching her and chatting, and he watched them for a moment before joining the game.

 

 

\---

 

“That’s much better,” Milady said breathlessly, admiring her work. Athos glared at her silently, looking like a cat who had not wanted to be bathed but was betrayed regardless. There was a red mark on his cheek that stung painfully, but he was more concerned with his hair.

“If this looks stupid-” he warned.

“You really think there’s a _chance_ it could look worse than the stringy mess you had? Honestly, Athos, do you let your hair get longer the more miserable you are?”

Athos gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“You’d never have passed for nobility looking like you’d been on a ship for months,” she sniffed. “And you need to wash before you leave- but I’m _not_ doing that.”

 

Athos shook his head, watching his hair scatter to the floor in mute irritation. Truth be told, he _had_ meant to get it cut months ago; but that didn’t stop him feeling like a rudely sheared sheep.

He stood, ducking his head to stare into window for his reflection, and sighed heavily.

“Oh, it’s fine, stop complaining.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Keep it that way. “ She swept out of the room and he followed, staring at the back of her head in a confusing mixture of anger and the now-familiar desire that seemed to be consuming him more every day.

 

“Oh, there you are,” Aramis greeted them as they came back into the yard. “She cut your hair! Thank God, I was worried she was gutting you.”

“And you didn’t come to _help?_ ” Athos growled.

“What you two do in the bedroom is none of our business.”

Milady smirked and said nothing, looking to Athos and giving him a calculating look.

“Tomorrow, then.” Her fingertips lingered on his arm, her eyes locked on his.

Athos nodded with difficulty, and watched her leave before sitting at the table with the others and giving them all a warning glare.

“Get me a damn drink,” he growled, putting his head in his hands.

Porthos was oddly not laughing any more, and silently handed him the bottle.

 

 

\---

 

 

 

GARRISON- NEXT MORNING

Milady arrived at the garrison early the next day, dressed exquisitely in a rich, wine coloured dress with tiny embroidered gold fleur-de-lis on the bodice. Her choker was gold with a ruby dangling from it, her hair piled artfully and curled.

“Is he ready?” she asked Constance, who was admiring the dress despite her misgivings about Milady.

“He’s in the office with d’Artagnan. He won’t be long.” Milady folded her arms irritably and turned her attention to where Elodie was practicing with her bow again, the steady _thunk_ of arrows hitting their mark the only noise this early in the morning.

 _I’d quite like to know how to use one of those,_ she thought to herself while she waited. _Silent and long range._ She drifted closer, watching Elodie closely.

 

\--

 

“Look, Athos,” d’Artagnan said uncomfortably. “I’m sorry for making you do this.”

Athos shrugged and finished buttoning his doublet. “You’re the Captain.”

“I mean it,” he said, catching Athos’ arm and squeezing gently. “If I could have found someone else-“

“I’m the only one who knows how to act,” Athos nodded. “I know. But _her?”_

“I thought there might be someone there who would recognise you or her. And,” d’Artagnan hesitated, “she can take care of herself, if anything happens.”

 _And you would miss her less than Constance if anything went wrong,_ Athos thought, somewhat unkindly. He dismissed it quickly and reached to grasp the back of d’Artagnan’s neck with his hand, pressing their foreheads together briefly.

“It’s alright,” he said, and meant it. D’Artagnan smiled and Athos turned to leave the office.

“How do I look?”

“I barely recognise you.”

Athos grunted, amused.

 

\--

 

Milady swung back around as she heard the door swing open with a drawn out creak; lifting her eyes to the balcony, she felt a shock of arousal and disbelief run through her at the man in the doorway.

It was Athos- but not as she’d seen him for ten years. He looked like he had walked straight from her memories. He stood tall and straight, his head up and his chin tilted arrogantly, his outfit rich and expensive looking; soft, black leather for the doublet, tooled and worked with a pattern of flowers and with gold buttons. Everything was black and gold, actually; even his sword-belt was worked with gold filigree.

 

They stared at each other for a long, silent moment, her unblinking and wide-eyed, wondering where the shambling, drunken wreck she recognised had gone, and him trying hard to not gape open-mouthed at how beautiful she looked, his nostrils flaring and his eyes drinking her in silently.

 

Eventually, he cleared his throat and came down the stairs, studiously avoiding her gaze as he stood beside her.

“Good morning,” she said, pointedly, and he gave her a non-committal grunt in response.

“Are you always this verbose in the morning?”

He lifted his eyes to her briefly, glaring. But whatever he was going to say was interrupted by Porthos striding towards them across the yard, looking uncomfortable and irritated. He was dressed plainly but well, in black and brown leather, and looked like any noble’s valet. He was clearly unhappy about that fact.

“I look like a servant,” he grumbled.

“That _was_ the point,” Milady said sweetly.

Porthos grimaced and adjusted his doublet. “I’m not playing your damn servant yet.”

“You know you can’t use your name,” Athos observed.

“Why not?”

“It’s well known, for one.”

Porthos groaned. “So what do you plan on calling me?”

“Mousqeton,” Milady supplied before Athos could speak. “A fine name for a valet.”

Porthos looked vaguely disgusted. “What smug bastard came up with that?”

Everyone looked at Aramis, who suddenly became very interested in what Elodie was doing.

“I’ll get you for this,” Porthos warned him.

“Take our bags,” Milady said, gesturing at her luggage, which she had set down next to Athos’.

“You’re only going for one night!” Porthos exclaimed. “What could you possibly need?”

“Dresses,” Milady said shortly.

“What do you call that then?” he grunted, looking at her dress.

“You don’t wear the _same dress_ in the evening as you do in the afternoon,” she said, appalled. Athos nodded in silent but somewhat apologetic agreement.

“And,” she added, “This journey will take at least twenty four hours. I am _not_ wearing the same dress after a journey that long.”

 

Porthos grudgingly picked up the luggage and started loading it onto the carriage that had just arrived, muttering to himself.

“You can open the door yourselves,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m busy here.”

Athos opened the carriage door for Milady, following her in and shutting it behind them.

“Oi, where do I sit?” Porthos said.

“Up there,” Milady pointed to where the driver was sat, and Porthos gave Athos a pained look before disappearing from view. They heard “Move over!” and felt the carriage rock, and then they were off, Athos raising a hand to Aramis and d’Artagnan who waved them goodbye.

It only occurred to Athos a few minutes later that he would have to be sat in close quarters to Milady for a whole day, at least, without anywhere to go.

_This was a stupid idea._

 

They sat in awkward silence for an hour, Athos staring out of the window blankly, not seeing anything. He could hear Milady breathing; slow, even breaths that sounded calm and measured, and as the countryside sped past, his thoughts wandered to another life, to the warm, endlessly golden days they had spent laughing and loving before it had all gone wrong.

Those days were long gone, but perhaps he might still find some peace. It was beginning to look possible, for the first time in ten years.

The carriage rocked and bumped its way along, stopping and starting as the driver negotiated other traffic, until it eventually eased and their progress became steadier.

 

“We should talk about how we’re going to play this,” Milady said suddenly, and Athos turned to her, startled out of his gloomy musing.

He took in a breath, nodding. “What did you have in mind?”

“We’re in love,” she said simply. “Ecstatically so. I will play the dutiful, adoring wife, and you must indulge me. Smile, for God’s sake, Athos. I know you have a smile, _somewhere._ I remember it.”

He blinked and said nothing.

“We must be sweet; innocent enough that they suspect nothing and nauseating enough that they won’t engage us in conversation for long enough to doubt our story.”

 

Athos grimaced. “This will be humiliating.”

“You managed to convince me that you were sweet once,” she said flatly, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “Just do it again.”

“And you managed to convince me-“ he started, and then shut his mouth abruptly.

“I know. That I wasn’t a cheat, a murderer, a treacherous liar. You’ve told me often enough, Athos.”

“I didn’t intend to say that,” Athos said, colouring hotly.

“Then what?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, but she wouldn’t let it go, and eventually, he mumbled, “That you loved me.”

There was a silence that felt deafening to Athos, as she stared at him, pale and shaking- but with what, he couldn’t tell.

“I wasn’t lying,” she said finally, curtly, and then turned her head to look out of the window again.

 

Athos sat in painful, torturous silence for another hour before she spoke again.

 

“I didn’t at first,” she said out of nowhere, glancing at him and then ignoring him again. “I didn’t intend to. And then I did, and I shocked myself.”

Athos digested that for a moment, and then simply said, “I always did.”

“I know.”

 

This didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, and Athos turned his head back to the window.

He wished he had a drink.

 _You have to give her something,_ he thought to himself, glancing at her askance. _Anything._

He groped for something to say, some conversation to strike up that wouldn’t upset her. It was maddening just being so close to her, memories dredged up from recesses of his mind he’d forgotten about entirely. How soft her skin was, the sleepy noise she made in the morning when she awoke, the feeling of her lips soft against his cheek; they marched through his head endlessly.

 

“I would have gone with you,” he said eventually, staring determinedly out of the window.

“When?”

“At the crossroads.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

A pause, and then Athos shrugged. “Perhaps not. But I would have asked you to stay.”

“You were too late.”

He couldn’t help but defend himself, looking at her with a flash of irritation that couldn’t disguise how lost he felt.

_His eyes are so blue when he’s sad. Like forget-me-nots._

“You left early!”

Milady hesitated, her lips slightly parted. “I did.”

“Why?” His voice cracked. He’d asked himself this question for five years, knowing he had no right to ask but needing to know all the same.

She looked everywhere except at Athos, and then took in a deep breath.

“I was…scared.”

 

He almost scoffed, disbelieving; but her guilty expression and the way she wouldn’t meet his eyes stilled his tongue.

“Scared? Of what?”

“Are we really doing this?” she asked, and he nodded, relentless.

“Fine.” She touched her choker, blinked, and then, with a huge effort, met his gaze as steadily as she could. “I was scared that you wouldn’t come. I was scared that you hadn’t even thought about it; that I was nothing to you. I was scared that you _would_ come, and that we would have nothing to say. I worked myself up all day. My heart nearly stopped whenever I heard a horse. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and so I left.”

“And left your glove.”

“As a…test, if you will. So that I would know, one way or another, if I saw you again.”

“You knew I’d keep it?”

She looked at him pityingly. “Oh, Athos. You never were good at letting go.”

He didn’t have a reply for that, and fell silent once more.

 

Several times, he caught her eyeing him silently, but he said nothing until she spoke again.

“You look very-“ she began, and then didn’t know what to finish the sentence with. _Handsome? Dashing? What on earth were you going to say?_ she chided herself.

“Thank you,” he said to the unspoken compliment.  He gritted his teeth and pushed on, “You look-“ he hesitated. _Athos. It’s just a compliment, give her something. Tell her the truth._

“Beautiful,” he finished somewhat lamely, flushing and turning away. His eyes had flicked unconsciously to her choker, and the memory of what he had done, why she had to wear that, always, made him want to retch.

She smiled to herself, satisfied and a little surprised.

 _This might not be so difficult after all,_ she thought, watching him surreptitiously as he glared out of the window, his hands gripping his knees as though afraid he would reach for her, his breathing uneven and laboured. He seemed distressed, and the fact that she could tell- that he was failing at his usual stoic mask of indifference- gave her hope.

She hadn’t allowed herself that hope since she had found the glove among his things; since that kiss where she had almost, for one shining moment, believed that everything would be well, that they could have peace- together. When that moment had been broken, when he had- well- and then, when he had chosen Sylvie- she had shut herself off again, hidden away that grain of hope at the bottom of all the bitterness, all of the rage and vengeance and pain, and carried on.

She had thought him lost.

But he believed her. He _believed_ that his own brother had tried to force her. It was all she could do to not allow that hope to blossom already into a bright bloom in her heart.

 

 

\----

 

GARRISON

“Aramis?”

Aramis looked up from where he was writing a response to the Queen. He was urging her to keep Condé imprisoned; explaining that there would be more evidence soon and to remain where she was, and sending her and her son all of his love. He paused with the quill hovering above the paper.

 

“Pauline?”

She looked terrible; the last time Aramis had seen her, she was about to be arrested for murder. He had helped her to escape the wrath of her fiancé; an ingenious but simple plan involving faking her own death by suicide- note included- and giving her enough money to get out of there and start again, somewhere, _anywhere_ else. He had suggested a convent.

But he hadn’t been able to find her to check how she had managed after her escape, and with everything that had happened since…well, he had neglected her in his thoughts.

“Aramis,” she said again, running towards him and embracing him. She was shaking, her hair dishevelled and her eyes wild, and she looked like she had been crying. Aramis stood, confused and happy to see her alive, and returned her hug warmly.

“How are you?” he asked after a moment, pulling back to study her face. “You look exhausted, Pauline- what’s happened? Sit down.”

 

He moved along the bench for her, and she sat, pulling her shawl over her shoulders.  Aramis studied her. She looked thin, pinched; her slid over his lunch to her and watched her eat ravenously, her usually fastidious manners forgotten.

“I went to the convent,” she said after she’d eaten. “I enjoyed it, for a while. The sisters were nice to me and I learned how to keep bees.”

Her expression clouded. “But the convent was attacked; some of my friends were killed, and I was kidnapped along with some other nuns, by some men who wanted to sell us to the highest bidder. I think they assumed we were all virgins.” She said that with a rueful smile.

“I didn’t correct them. I thought I would just play along, keep my head down, and try to escape. And I did.” She looked proud for a moment. “They were sleeping. I managed to use one of their wine bottles, cut my ropes, and ran.”

Aramis nodded, impressed and disheartened at what she had gone through.

“I ran to the nearest village and begged a horse. I rode it to another village, and kept on running, doing little jobs for people, earning my passage. I didn’t stop till I got back here, and came to you. You were the only person I could think of. Thank God you were here.”

Aramis took her hand and held it gently, his brow furrowed. “You’re safe now,” he said, wondering if it was even true.

“Are they still looking for you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shivering. “But they have my friends- _nuns_ , Aramis. Some of them have never seen the outside of those walls since they got there. They can’t-“ her voice broke on a choked-back sob, and Aramis nodded grimly.

“Alright. D’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan appeared in the doorway of his office. “What is it?”

“We may have a spot of trouble.”

 

\----

 

CARRIAGE

Twelve hours in, nerves were starting to fray. They had eaten and rested several hours before, at an inn by the road, and Athos had managed to buy a couple of bottles of wine for the journey.

“You drink too much,” Milady sighed, watching him take a long swallow.

Athos looked at her with a silent challenge, but she was undeterred.

“I’m not one of your friends, Athos. I’m not going to sit here and watch you drink yourself to death just because I _like_ you and want you to like me. You drink too much, and you know it.”

Athos grunted.

“Why?” she asked, knowing the answer but needing him to admit it.

“You know why.”

“When did you start?”

He paused.

“About ten minutes after I rode away from that tree,” he said eventually, scowling. “Now leave me be.”

 

He finished the bottle with one long drink, and tossed it to the floor of the carriage. Milady rolled her eyes.

“Well, don’t be too drunk when we arrive. It isn’t seemly.”

“I’ll be fine.”

 _Yes, you’re the most functioning alcoholic I’ve ever met,_ she thought with concern and bitterness.

“How did you manage at the front lines?”

He glanced at her. “I stopped.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I wasn’t,” he said with a huff of wry amusement, remembering the screaming and the sweating and the fear, Porthos holding him down and Aramis feeding him soup, d’Artagnan wiping his face with damp cloths as he shivered and begged for a drink through the night. He had only stopped because there wasn’t enough wine to drink; not for any noble cause. He’d slipped back into his old habits as soon as he could.

_As soon as you started thinking about her again._

 

Milady watched his face silently for a moment, trying to decipher his expression.

“Why did you start again?”

Athos looked pained and stared out of the window. “Sylvie found the glove.”

 

She didn’t know how to respond to that, and so fell silent again.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

“I have to stay,” d’Artagnan said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I have so much to do with the riots and the soldiers.”

“If you can send the letter to the Queen,” Aramis said decidedly, “I can take some of the Musketeers-“

“You can’t,” d’Artagnan said with a sigh. “They’re all out with the soldiers. Except Jean, but he’s got a shoulder injury.”

“He might have to do,” Aramis said with a determined look.

 

“I’ll come.”

Constance stood behind them, Elodie beside her.

“I would come too, if –“ Elodie said, almost wistfully. She looked down at Marie-Cezette in her arms with a smile. “But who would look after the little one?”

“I could look after her,” Pauline suggested with a look to Aramis. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to travel and keep up…”

Elodie gave Pauline a wary look. “You must forgive me,” she said carefully, “but I don’t know you. Why should I trust you with my _child?_ ”

“I vouch for her, Elodie,” Aramis said immediately. “I’ve known her almost as long as I can recall; she is nothing but a true friend and will guard your child as if she were her own.”

Elodie hesitated.

“I’ll keep an eye on her as well,” d’Artagnan added. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I swear to you, I mean her no harm,” Pauline said. “I just want my friends to be safe.”

Elodie nodded, quickly as though afraid she’d change her mind.

 

Aramis looked between them all.

“Alright,” he said with an elegant nod. “You can both come. Pauline, do you know the last place the kidnappers were?”

“I can draw a map,” she said.

“I’ll get Jean,” Constance nodded, already heading to the barracks.

 

“We’ll set off now,” Aramis said when Jean had been located. “We should be back within three days; if we’re not-“

“I’ll head the search party myself,” d’Artagnan said with a smile. He turned to Constance.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.” Constance shook her head at him fondly. “You know I won’t change my mind.”

“I know.” He sighed, and kissed her softly. “Take care, please?”

She nodded, and he helped her onto her horse silently, looking up at her for a moment before stepping back.

 

“She is eating solid food all the time now,” Elodie was saying to Pauline. “She doesn’t like apples, but she likes grapes and she likes bread. And eggs. And chicken. She won’t eat carrot-“

“I have the list here,” Pauline laughed, Marie-Cezette in her arms and smiling. “She’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I know.” Elodie hesitated and then kissed the child on the forehead. “Please take care of her.”

“I will.”

Aramis assisted her onto her horse, a beautiful chestnut mare she had chosen herself, and she arranged her bow and the quiver carefully, not looking back at Pauline.

Finally, Aramis embraced Pauline and d’Artagnan, and got into the saddle, Jean following suit.

“Are we ready?”

Everyone nodded.

“We’ll be back soon,” he promised Pauline, and spurred his horse into a trot with the others close behind him.

 

\----

 

INN

Milady, Athos and Porthos stayed the night in a roadside inn; a small, shabby place that served cheap wine and barely recognisable food to almost every guest. Athos and Milady were treated like royalty, Milady’s regal air and their fine outfits stirring the innkeeper into servitude and grovelling. They were given the best wine and a hot meal that actually resembled a beef stew, and managed to get the best rooms; one with two single beds in it, and one with a large bed.

“You two should stay in that one,” Porthos joked. “Seeing as you’re married.”

“If you don’t shut up,” Athos said, deadpan, “I’ll make _you_ sleep with her, and see how long you survive.”

“Neither of you are sleeping with me,” she said acidly. “I’ll take this room.”

She slammed the door in their faces, and left them the room with the two small beds.

“I’d have given it a go,” Porthos said gloomily, lying down and realising his feet hung over the edge of the narrow bed. Athos threw his boot at Porthos’ head.

“That’s my _wife_ you’re talking about,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Then get in there and tell her that,” Porthos laughed, pulling off his own boots. “I dare you.”

Athos shook his head and finished undressing before blowing out the candles and getting into bed.

 

 

“I think this damn bed is made of nails,” Athos grumbled a few minutes later.

“I think mine might be as well,” Porthos said, shifting his weight in the dark.

“Mine’s fine,” came a voice, quiet but distinct, from the wall behind their heads. Athos groaned and closed his eyes. She could hear them. Of course she could.

Porthos chuckled to himself and then fell silent.

 

\---

 

They set off early in the morning, aiming to make it into Burgundy by that evening and their destination by the morning after, in time for the ball.

Athos was in a bad mood; he’d had the nightmare again, and again he’d got closer to her before he’d woken up, sweating and with Porthos sleepily shaking him. Porthos was so used to his nightmares that as soon as Athos woke up, Porthos patted his shoulder, returned to his bed and was asleep again within seconds, knowing that Athos hated being made a fuss of.

 

He barely spoke to Milady for the first few hours, dozing occasionally and drinking, and she made a great show of ignoring him whilst watching him from the corner of her eye.

_He looks like shit._

But even though he looked like he’d barely slept, there was something innocent-looking about him this morning; it was probably the sleep rumpled hair, the bleary-eyed expression and the way his head leaned to the left when he dozed off like a child unable to remain awake. She remembered the smell of his hair in the mornings; the warmth of him relaxed beside her, the little half-smile he would give her when he woke up and she was watching him. It hurt her heart to think of it.

 _Don’t be a fool,_ she told herself repeatedly. _You can’t afford to let him in._

_Not again._

She had never meant to love him; he had been a fast ticket to money, an easy target who she had wanted to trap and then dispose of as quickly as possible. She hadn’t counted on his gentle, persistent sweetness, or the way he looked at her as though she was the most amazing treasure. She definitely hadn’t counted on his wicked streak, or on his ability to make her knees weak with just a look. She had fallen _hard_ , and thought, yes, I might make a life her after all-

and then Thomas, and –

She scowled to herself, touching her choker and sighing as she looked out of the window.

 

\---

 

TRAVELLING- ARAMIS

The map Pauline had given him was crudely drawn but accurate enough, and they rode past several villages that she had marked out as ones that she had gone through.

This was the last one on her map; the one where she had managed to secure a horse, and Aramis had stopped to find something to eat and perhaps question the innkeeper.

“I haven’t seen any large groups,” the innkeeper said with a wary look at Aramis’ pistol. “Not that stopped by here.”

“Do you remember seeing a woman?” he tried. “Blonde, pretty- she might have looked upset. She took a horse.”

“I haven’t seen any strange woman pass here,” he said. He glanced behind Aramis to where Constance and Elodie were sat at a table, his eyes flicking to their weapons. “I don’t think you should stay here long.”

“We’re just passing through, I assure you,” Aramis said, and ordered the drinks.

He spotted Jean speaking to a young lady behind the bar, and rolled his eyes as he went back to his companions.

“He says he doesn’t know anything,” he said as he slid onto his seat. “But I’m not sure I believe him. We’ll drink up and get out of here, though- he’s spotted that we’re all armed and I don’t want to get into a fight.”

 

Jean sidled over and sat down, grinning smugly. “Pauline came through here,” he said, taking his ale from Aramis.

“How do you know?”

Jean leaned over and gave the lady he had been speaking to a charming smile and a wink, and she blushed and turned away with a laugh.

“I asked her.”

Aramis sighed. That was usually his job, and he hadn’t even thought of it. “What did she say?”

“She’s the innkeeper’s daughter. She saw Pauline, and let her take her husband’s horse because she looked desperate. She says she saw a group of men on horseback talking to her father as well, yesterday. But she doesn’t know what he said to them.”

Aramis nodded. “Good job. In that case, we _definitely_ need to get out of here. Drink up.” They downed their drinks and left the inn hastily, Jean bowing to the innkeeper’s daughter on the way out.

 _At least we know we’re on the right track,_ Aramis thought grimly as they saddled up and set off once more. He was trying to keep the pace easy; Constance wasn’t used to riding for a long time and he didn’t want her to get too sore. She hadn’t complained, though, and he wondered to himself about his choice of companions. Jean- who he was still getting used to the idea of, though he seemed like a perfectly decent cadet, Elodie, a woman he knew could survive under harsh conditions, and Constance, who already ran so much back at the garrison that he didn’t quite know why she hadn’t been doing things like this more often. All were capable, and none of them were Musketeers.

 _Neither am I, anymore,_ he reminded himself.

His thoughts strayed to Anne, and the spike of jealousy he felt that Mazarin was with her and not him surprised him even now.

She had assured him that there was nothing romantic between her and the Cardinal. He believed her- or at least, he _wanted_ to believe that she would not lie to him- but he couldn’t help worrying that there was something to the rumours that had been spread.

 _But they were spread by Condé,_ he thought. _Who merely wanted to discredit the Cardinal and the Queen Regent. There was no proof._

Proof.

 

How he wished it were that easy. But then, there was no proof that the young King was his child, either; and he knew that to be true with all of his heart and soul. His fierce love for the boy was terrifying- he would die for the child within a heartbeat, and yet he must never know that Aramis was his father or all of France would be lost. The burden of that knowledge was heavy on him, and he knew it must be even greater on Anne, who had to bear it silently and while raising her son to be King in his assumed father’s lineage. Being close to his son had not helped like he thought it would. In fact, it had made the strain even more terrible, the urge to cuddle him, to teach him new things and explore the grounds at his side like a father, too great to resist without herculean effort.

 

 _I must not think ill of Anne,_ he admonished himself. _She is under enough strain._ He must believe her, then; and he must trust that whatever her plan was in regards to the Cardinal, it would be revealed to him when it was the right time. Till then, all he could do was send her his love and keep Paris safe.

The resolution calmed him a little; he had been thinking about her a lot recently, his thoughts consumed by jealousy and concern for her safety, all rolled up together in a confusing mess.

 

\---

 

“Would you teach me how to use that bow?” Constance asked Elodie, giving the weapon an appreciative glance. “I’ve watched you practice with it.”

“Of course,” Elodie smiled back. “You should have asked sooner. Though I’m out of practice with it, I fear- too used to safety at the garrison. Perhaps this will change that.”

“Maybe we should all try to learn,” Constance mused. “In case we have to.”

“It won’t come to that,” Elodie assured her. “In any case, I would have to hide behind the nearest table if Porthos got his hands on this bow. He is not known for his accuracy.”

Constance laughed. “I can’t see him having the patience, it’s true. Aramis, though-“

Aramis glanced behind him, amused. “I’m the best shot in the Musketeers,” he reminded them with a self-satisfied air. “I’m sure I could use that bow.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Elodie grinned at him. “And I’ll teach you- from inside the office, shouting out of the window so you don’t hit me.”

Aramis huffed out a laugh and shook his head, returning to his thoughts.

“I’d like to learn,” Jean offered. Elodie shrugged.

“Then I hope you’re safer than my husband around projectiles,” she said. Jean gave her a roguish look.

“Madame,” he said gallantly, “My aim is _always_ true.”

Constance made a mock-disgusted noise and laughed. “That was terrible, Jean.”

“Jean, when we get back to the garrison, I think I should talk to you about picking up women,” Aramis said with raised eyebrow.

“Why, would you like some suggestions?”

Aramis laughed so hard that he couldn’t breathe.

 

\----

 

 

 

CARRIAGE

They had reached Burgundy, the carriage slowing significantly as they navigated the heavier traffic on the way to Auxerre. They were all very tired of the journey at this point, every rest stop sullenly silent, Porthos wincing as he stretched out his aching muscles.

They stopped the night in a tavern and the next morning they set out on the last leg to Auxerre, expecting to arrive by early afternoon. There was to be a soiree before the ball in the evening, and they wished to mingle and perhaps gain some trust in time to listen in to the real conversation that would happen once tongues were loosened by drink.

 

“I feel as though we’ve been in this carriage forever,” Milady sighed, lolling her head back and closing her eyes. “You’re hardly the most stimulating company.”

“My apologies,” Athos said dryly, his own eyes half closed and watching the country go by idly.

He needed a drink to face what he was about to have to do. Rarely had he dreaded anything as deeply as he dreaded this ball. To have to pretend to be happily, blissfully married to Anne- _Milady-_ when they had done nothing during their marriage but lie and hurt each other was unthinkable. To have her so close, to pretend that everything was perfect and wonderful, to be able to smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her skin and not let on that he felt like he was drowning in her- he wasn’t sure it was possible. How could he ever pretend that he had not had her hanged for the sake of his own ego- and how could she trust him? How could she stand to be so close to him, to laugh on his arm and to smile at him like she loved him, when he had sent her to her death? When he had turned from her pleas for mercy, had abandoned her again and again-

He closed his eyes, realising he was getting nowhere.

 

“What are you thinking?”

He didn’t move, pretending he was asleep, but she was undeterred. “Athos, I know you’re awake. You snore when you sleep.”

“I’m just thinking,” he said.

“Yes, I can see that.”

He said nothing, and shrugged. “About the ball. About what we have to do.”

“There’s no need to sound so upset about it,” she sighed. “It might be fun.”

“Fun.” He swallowed thickly, and still without opening his eyes, asked, “How can you do it?”

“How can I do what?”

“Pretend that- that we’re _happy._ ”

“I was happy once,” she said quietly. “I’m sure I’ll remember how it felt.”

He opened his eyes curiously, his gaze meeting hers. “So was I.” It came out before he could stop it.

She looked startled, as though she hadn’t expected him to say that, and then recovered with a tight lipped smile. “Yes, well, we both know how that turned out.”

“Don’t,” he said, gritting his teeth.

She gave him a look that was both contemptuous and pitying, but said nothing.

“How can we do this?” he said instead, and she would never forget the waver in his voice as he turned to her, asking the question like a lost child. His eyes were wide, his nostrils flaring as he fought for control over himself, and she found herself unable to lie, a weakness she could never shake off around him.

“We have to,” she said, her voice softening. She stopped herself reaching for his hand, but only just. Truthfully, she wasn’t quite sure how she would manage it herself. She had never quite lost the apprehension she felt around Athos, and his last actions before abandoning her for Sylvie had not helped that. Well, perhaps _apprehension_ wasn’t the right word; she knew she could stab him, shoot him, or slit his throat at any moment, and he would probably let her, begging her to finish him like mad dog. But he had hurt her, and she wasn’t sure she trusted him again yet.

But that aside, she was _still_ in trouble, because just being around him was bittersweet and agonising. Sometimes, she could almost forget everything that had happened between them, in those rare encounters where they were on the same page for a few, shining moments, only to have it crash back around her when they parted.

 _It hasn’t been like that recently, though,_ she mused. _We- and dear God, I’m using ‘we’-have been actually speaking like adults instead of making empty threats._

 

“We’re here,” Porthos yelled from the front of the carriage, and they looked at each other, tense.

 

\-----

 

TRAVELLING- ARAMIS

“Look- hoof marks,” Aramis said, leaning over the neck of his horse. “And a lot of them.”

“We must be catching up,” Elodie said with a grim expression.

Aramis scanned the horizon in the direction the tracks were headed, and sighed. “I think they went into those trees,” he said, pointing. “They might be staying there for the night.”

“Then we can catch them off-guard,” Constance nodded with determination. “While they sleep.”

“They’ll have guards,” Aramis warned.

“I have a bow,” Elodie replied with a grin. “It’s silent.”

Jean smiled approvingly, and Aramis inclined his head. “Let’s get close enough to see what we’re against first, shall we?” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. He tilted his hat back a little against the sun and spurred his horse in the direction of the forest.

 

When they reached the outskirts, they tethered their horses and left them, moving as quietly as possible into the trees. Aramis led, Elodie taking the rear with an arrow ready to fly, and they slipped through the forest with all senses on high alert.

“You hear that?” Constance hissed urgently, tugging at Aramis’ sleeve. He stopped, and listened intently.

“Crying.”

Constance nodded and pointed east. “That way.”

With a glance to the others, Aramis carried on, drawing his sword. They clambered over a grassy ridge, scrabbling for purchase on the soft ground, and peered over the edge cautiously.

“Shit,” Aramis muttered, immediately ducking down again.

The camp was large and sprawling, guards posted at each corner, and there looked to be at least twenty men eating and laughing at fires in the centre of the group.

“Did you see the nuns?” Constance whispered, and Aramis nodded, pointing to the right. They looked back over the ridge and Constance saw them; a group of perhaps ten frightened women, huddled together with guards surrounding them. They looked scared and defeated, though there was one woman attempting to calm the others by leading them in prayer. Aramis could hear one of the guards mocking them cruelly.

 

“We wait,” Aramis said softly. “When night falls, we have a better chance at getting them out safely. We’re outmanned five to one at least; we’d have no chance in a straight shoot-out.”

They nodded silently and settled in to wait for dusk.

 

 _I hope I don’t let anyone down,_ Constance thought. _I haven’t done this before- not really._ She worried that when it came down to it, she would freeze up like she had when d’Artagnan had been injured. Aramis and Jean- and even Elodie- were all used to fighting. She just hoped her instincts were as good as theirs, when they needed to be. She couldn’t afford to let the women die because she was stupid or scared.

“Are you alright?” Elodie whispered to her.

She nodded, and then, hesitating, shook her head. “I’m nervous.”

“You’ll do fine,” Elodie reassured her. “I’ve seen you spar with d’Artagnan, remember?” Constance smiled gratefully, shivering despite herself. “I know, but sparring isn’t the same, is it?”

Elodie shrugged. “Perhaps not, but it’s better than nothing.”

“I don’t know if I can kill people,” Constance said. “I mean- I have, when I’ve had to, but-“

“If you get used to it,” Elodie said darkly, “ _then_ you should worry. It’s not human to slaughter without remorse.”

Constance nodded. “You’re right. It just all seems so senseless.”

 

\---

 

AUXERRE

Porthos opened the carriage door for them, giving Athos a murderous glare as he swept past with Milady. She slipped her arm through his, leaning against him; just enough to look natural, without being too nauseating. Athos felt her against him like a brand, and forced himself to ignore it.

 

“Mousqeton,” she called airily to Porthos. “Take our luggage in.” Athos didn’t dare turn around to check that he was doing so, but suppressed a smirk at the thought of his appalled face.

 

They were announced as the Comte and Comtessa de la Fère; Athos gritted his teeth and took in a deep breath, lifting his head arrogantly as he entered the room. He’d been a Comte for long enough to know what was expected.

The change was immediate and remarkable. Milady watched him transform from a tired and miserable looking man to someone both intimidating and worthy of respect within moments, and she adjusted her own posture to match him, knowing that eyes were on them as they advanced elegantly. She had made sure they looked good together when dressing; matching his black and gold with a gorgeous gold and ivory dress, lace detailing in black on the bodice. It was a deliberate act to make them look unified, and she noted with satisfaction that heads were turning, people whispering in admiration as they passed.

Milady procured them both drinks swiftly, knowing Athos would be more amenable to conversation with one in his hand, and with a smile which was calculated to look simply _delighted_ at being here, they began to mingle with the nobles.

This was merely practice for the ball in the evening; Milady was eager to ensure that people would actually _speak_ to them at the evening event, which unfortunately meant cultivating friendships that were as fake as her smile.

 

“Ah, my dear Marquis!” she called in a voice so simply breathless with happiness that Athos choked back a snort of amusement. She dug him in the ribs surreptitiously and beamed at the Marquis and his wife, who hid his confusion remarkably well considering they had never met before.

“Darling, this is the Marquis de Lisieux,” she explained to Athos, leaning against him and giving him a look that was beatific in its happiness. Athos managed a smile that was almost passable, greeting the Marquis politely. “We met- oh, years ago now, at another soiree. How handsome you look!”

The Marquis was suitably flattered, his round red face flushing even more with pleasure, and he took Milady’s hand, kissing it with moist, fishlike lips. She held back a shudder and sighed in happiness, looking to his wife. “And how beautiful you are, isn’t she, my love?”

Athos took the hint, bowing gallantly to the lady who coloured prettily, fanning herself. “Simply breathtaking,” he said, making deliberate eye contact, and she all but swooned.

 _Dear God, this might actually work,_ he thought with surprise.

“You look radiant,” the Marquis said to Milady, and she smiled, her eyes wide as she looked up at Athos.

“I’m just so _happy,_ ” she announced. “We’re terribly in love,” she confided to the Marquis’ wife, looking slightly embarrassed. “I know it’s silly, but it’s just so wonderful- isn’t it, darling?”

Athos swallowed and after a pause that was just on the right side of polite, he smiled down at her, pulling her close to him. “Yes, we’re very happy together,” he said, even managing a short laugh. “I couldn’t imagine life without her.”

 _I’m going to kill her,_ he thought with vicious satisfaction. _She’s torturing me deliberately._ She was warm against his side, his arm around her waist feeling familiar and right and terribly painful all at once, his fingers splayed over her hip exactly how they used to. He felt every breath she took as though it were his own, could almost feel the life thrumming through her. It was _agony_ and it was beautiful and he wanted to kiss her and kill her and run as fast as he could from this place.

They simpered and chatted a little more before moving away, promising to find them again in the evening.

 

“That went well,” Milady murmured to him. Athos scowled.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” she replied. “What, you don’t think I _enjoy_ deceiving rich old men?”

“I mean _this_ ,” he clarified, squeezing her hip gently. “You like making me uncomfortable.”

“You deserve it,” she smiled pleasantly, and turned to the next target.

“Oh look, it’s the Comte d’Amboise,” she said, loud enough for the Comte to hear and turn to her with a quizzical smile. She leaned in, her bosom just a little too close for him to ignore, and said, “I’ve heard _so_ much about you.” This had the desired effect on the poor Comte, who smiled as though suddenly recognising her and greeted them both enthusiastically.

A few minutes later, Athos, who was tuning out of the conversation, was clapped on the shoulder by the Comte and congratulated on having such a fine, beautiful wife.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” he smiled back with a puppy-eyed glance towards his wife. “Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve her.”

Milady rolled her eyes behind the Comte’s head and they parted from him.

 

“I don’t think there was any need for that,” she said, giving him a nudge.

“Well, I thought I’d be more convincing if I didn’t lie.”

“Or you could just lie _better,_ ” she suggested, smiling at him at the same time like a love-struck kitten.

“You’re disgusting,” he sighed.

“Oh, my goodness! Is _that_ the Comtessa de la Brienne?” she said, in an awestruck tone.

“ _Be nice,”_ she hissed to him as she approached them. _“I actually know this one.”_

“My dear Comtessa,” Athos said, bowing stiffly. “I have heard great things about you.”

 

The Comtessa was tall and ungainly looking, awkward in her dress, and she looked at Athos suspiciously before smiling at Milady. “It’s lovely to see you again,” she said, kissing Milady’s cheek.

“I was just telling my dear husband how wonderful it was at the ball we met at- you remember? The ballroom glowed with so many candles, and it snowed outside.”

“I recall that was the ball where my late husband got so drunk that he tried to hang from a chandelier.”

“That’s right,” Milady giggled. “He was always so…”

“He was a fool, and I don’t miss him.” The Comtessa looked to Athos. “It seems you were luckier than I was.”

“I’m simply _ecstatic_ ,” Milady sighed happily, stroking Athos’ arm. “This is the Comte de la Fère, my husband. Isn’t he _handsome?_ ” She laughed prettily, and the Comtessa smiled.

“He is that.” Athos inclined his head, and Milady leaned up to plant a kiss on his cheek. It took all of his self-control not to look surprised, and he concentrated on making the right face- pleased, a little awkward perhaps. He smiled adoringly at Milady.

“I must confess,” Milady was saying, “I thought him a little simple at first- luckily, his looks are deceiving.” They both laughed, and Athos gritted his teeth.

“And you have a delightful wife,” the Comtessa said to him. Athos struggled to find the right response for a moment, and then decided to just tell the truth, sick of the play-acting and desperate for another drink.

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said, simply, not looking at Milady.

 _That didn’t sound like a lie,_ Milady said, frowning at him for a moment before remembering herself and smiling widely.

 

Later, they sat at ornate chairs and drank champagne, talking quietly and glancing around often to avoid being overheard.

“I think it’s going well,” Milady said, sipping her drink.

“Better than I assumed,” Athos shrugged.

“You’re getting very good at lying,” she said to him with a curious, sidelong glance. “I almost believed you.”

Athos felt himself flush and cleared his throat. “I just copied you.”

Milady nodded, watching him drain his glass. “You should eat something,” she warned, “Or you’ll be too drunk to dance later.”

“ _Dance?”_ he spluttered, almost too loudly, and then glanced around wildly to make sure no one had heard him. “I’m _not_ dancing with you, you-“

“Yes you are, if you want to blend in,” she hissed. “Or would you rather watch me dance with sweaty old men, have their hands all over me-“

“No,” he said sullenly, giving her a dark look.

“So you _do_ get jealous,” she said smugly.

_Oh, I hate you-_

“Stop.”

“Why, Athos? Why would you be jealous, when you did everything you could to be free of me?”

“I’m not –“

“It’s written all over your face, _dear_ husband. If I mean nothing to you, why would you care?”

 _Please,_ she thought desperately. _Please don’t let me be wrong. I can’t be wrong about this, not now. It would break me._

He took another champagne from a passing servant, drained it again, and then heaved a sigh so deep from his chest that Milady thought he was about to start sobbing.

“I didn’t say that you mean nothing to me,” he said, cautiously, not meeting her eyes.

Her heart gave a lurching, terrifying leap, and it was all she could do to restrain herself.

 She opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a booming “Ah, the Comte de la Fère and his beautiful wife!”

 _Oh, thank God,_ Athos thought fervently, turning to the owner of the voice and preparing for another round of lying-not-lying.

 

\----

 

SLAVER CAMP

Evening came slowly, all of them bored and aching by the time Aramis decided it was dark enough for them to start their rescue mission. He cautiously looked over the edge of the ridge, feeling his muscles protest, and took a quick look around, the others following his lead and waiting in silence while he figured out a plan that might not get them all killed.

The nuns were being guarded by four men, the edges of the camp guarded by three more. The rest of the group was by the fire, blankets thrown on the ground for them to sleep on. The fires were burning down now, the flames low and reddish in the dark, embers sparking and wood cracking suddenly as the blazes cooled.

 

“Elodie, if you take out the three guards at the edges of the camp,” Aramis said quietly. “Do it as silently, and as _quickly_ , as possible. We don’t want the others to hear.” Elodie nodded grimly.

“Jean, Constance- I need you to take the men guarding the nuns. Quietly. Wait until Elodie has shot the first of her men before you take yours. Don’t delay.” He pointed to a large rock formation behind the prisoners. “If you go around and hide behind there, you should be able to sneak up on them. Once the guards are taken out, you two need to untie the nuns, and please- _do not let them make a noise._ Our lives depend on their ability to be quiet.”

He looked to Elodie. “I’ll wait for you at the edge of the camp, and when Jean and Constance have the nuns, we’ll get in there and steal as many horses from them as possible. We’ll need them to make a decent head start. All of us-“ he glanced around, “will take out as many men as we need to  get out of there alive. Then, Constance, I need you to lead the nuns to safety, no matter what happens. Get them to our horses and get them back to their home, even if we don’t make it.”

Constance nodded.

“Right then,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “This is exactly the suicidal kind of plan Athos would complain about.”

“All the more reason to do it,” Jean grinned tightly, and Aramis tipped his hat.

“Go.”

Jean and Constance disappeared into the darkness to his right, and Elodie slipped away to his left. He crawled over the edge of the ridge and slid down as quietly as possible, getting into position.

 

He heard the steady _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of three arrows hitting their marks in the darkness to his left, glancing up to see three bodies sinking to the floor, barely visible in the dying firelight. At almost the same time, he heard muffled grunts and saw the guards fall, two by two, as Constance and Jean did their work with blades. The nuns shifted uneasily, unable to see what was happening, and one began to cry softly. There was a drawn out groan from one of the men, quickly cut off by either Jean or Constance cutting his throat, but Aramis could see a few of the slavers shifting by the firelight, alerted by the noise.

 _Get them up!_ he thought desperately, watching and straining his eyes in the darkness as the nuns were brought to their feet and untied, Constance and Jean working rapidly to get them all in a line and ready to follow them. He could just about hear the whispers of his friends comforting the nuns, explaining the situation as quickly as possible and asking for their silence.

_Now._

He stood, drawing his sword, and moved forward towards the camp, meeting Elodie at the edge and sneaking in past the men sleeping by the firelight. He cast a glance across to see Constance watching, wide-eyed and scared, Jean at her side, and he nodded to her reassuringly.

 

Reaching the horses, he gestured to Elodie to watch his back and then began untying the animals, quieting them with comforting pats to the neck and gentle murmurs. He worked quickly, tying their reins to each other so that he could lead them in a group, and was almost done when he heard Elodie’s bow twang and the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. He turned quickly with his sword ready, seeing her ready another arrow, and saw Jean and Constance across the fire, swords drawn and grim expressions on their faces. Some of the slavers were waking up, and it wouldn’t be long before they alerted the others.

 _Get them out,_ he mouthed to Constance, and with a nod she began to lead the nuns into the darkness, Jean guiding them into single file quickly. Elodie let another arrow fly, and it hit a man who was reaching for his weapon. She looked at him with fear in her eyes, and he couldn’t give her any reassurance, his own heart hammering painfully.

 _God help us,_ he prayed, briefly but fervently, and as the last nun slipped out of the light of the fire, he allowed himself to hope that it still might work without more violence.

He was wrong. With a sleepy shout, one of the slavers alerted the others, more of them stirring and stumbling to their feet, grabbing swords and pistols.

Aramis realised that the element of surprise was lost, and moved forward into the fray, hoping that their sleepiness would work in his favour even as he felt disgusted at himself for killing men who were barely ready to fight. It felt cowardly, somehow, even though he was rescuing innocent lives in doing so, and so he fought without his usual flourish or style, just doing what he could to disarm and injure rather than outright kill. Jean joined him, his sword flashing red in the firelight, and after glancing at Aramis, began to do the same, going for the injury rather than outright killing the slavers. Elodie was sending arrows into the group as fast as she could draw, knowing that her supply would run out soon enough and wanting to knock as many down before that happened.

 

Aramis was wounded in his shoulder; he didn’t judge it to be too serious, but it slowed him considerably and he held his arm to his chest protectively, feeling blood dripping down inside his shirt. Jean was also injured, in his thigh, and he limped significantly, his face beaded with sweat at the effort of keeping going.

Elodie ran out of arrows, and had to join the fight with her pistol, loading and firing as quickly as she could.

_There are too many,_ Aramis thought suddenly, looking up and realising there were still men coming for them. His heart sank, and he was debating ordering a retreat when there was a terrifying chorus of screams from the forest edge and the camp was swarmed by the nuns, all looking furious and with the confidence of the faithful. They advanced upon the slavers still screaming, brandishing sticks and stones, their aim erratic but full of righteous anger. Constance was at the head of them, firing her pistol into the men as quickly as she could reload it. Aramis grinned, impressed and delighted with her, and dropped his sword to his side as the remaining men ran shouting into the darkness of the forest, scattering.

 

Jean was laughing, even as he wrapped his scarf around his thigh tightly to staunch the bleeding, and he leaned his hands on his knees, recovering his breath for a moment while the nuns regrouped and stood quietly, Constance chatting with them warmly.

“I should be angry that you didn’t follow orders,” Aramis said, sidling up beside her with a mock-serious expression. She looked at him guiltily, ready to argue, but he gripped her shoulder warmly. “Thank you, Constance. I believe you may have just saved all our lives with your quick thinking.”

She smiled brilliantly.

 

Elodie and Jean joined him, Elodie having picked up as many of her arrows from the dead and bleeding as she could find. Jean was leading the tied-together horses.

“Sisters,” Aramis addressed the nuns. “If you will allow us, we will lead you back to your home.” He bowed, Jean doing the same beside him, and the nuns whispered among themselves before one of them, the oldest, though still young, stepped forward.

“We thank you….Musketeers?” She looked at Jean’s uniform to confirm her words, and seemingly satisfied that it meant they were _all_ Musketeers, or at least cadets, she nodded. “We will accept your offer. But how did you know?”

“One of your sisters, - I know her as Pauline – escaped and came for help.”

The nun smiled gently. “I knew she would survive. She told me she would come back for us. It seems she did one better.”

Aramis inclined his head graciously. “She is a dear friend of mine.” They led the nuns through the trees and managed to get them all on horses- some very unsteadily- before setting off for the convent.

 

\---

 

 

AUXERRE- EVENING

Milady had changed into a vibrant blue dress, embellished in silver, for the ball; Athos reluctantly matching her in a deep blue leather doublet that had a silver fleur-de-lis on the breast. He was growing increasingly nostalgic about his soft Musketeer uniform, despite it only having been a few days since he had last worn it.

“Do stop fidgeting,” Milady hissed to him as they mingled and chatted idly.

“It’s not comfortable.”

“And you think this corset is? Don’t be a baby, Athos.”

He silenced himself with irritation, smiling guilelessly at a duke who glanced his way.

“How long do we have to do this?”

“Until we hear something useful,” she replied. “Now smile, for God’s sake.”

They beamed and simpered their way through several intolerably dull conversations before hearing anything remotely useful, hovering at the edge of a hushed discussion.

 

“And I heard that the Prince was forefront in stirring up the provinces-“ a Comte was saying.

“I heard that too. I heard that he was trying to overthrow the Crown, can you believe it?”

“Well, I think he might have a point, you know. I mean, when you think about it, why should we have a monarchy at all?”

“Scandalous. There may be spies, here, Marquis. Be careful.”

“Nonsense. This is a ball, not a political rally.”

“Condé has allied with the Parlement, I heard-“

“And it was him to organised the revolts, that’s true-“

“And I heard a rumour that if he was released, he would rally those nobles on his side and take Paris.”

“Never!”

“It’s true. In fact, I know of some key nobles _in this very room_ who side with the Prince. Their provinces are ready to fight. Well, you know what a good general Condé is.”

“Be quiet.”

 

They drifted from the conversation silently, giving each other a glance.

In fact, once the wine was flowing, things got very interesting, nobles from all over the place offering information and gossip about the Prince of Condé as though it was the only interesting topic of conversation in the last few months.

 

“They’re obsessed,” Athos muttered to Milady at one point, after hearing three ladies discuss his handsome nose for ten minutes while their husbands discussed whether or not they would join him if he asked.

“We’re getting some interesting information, though,” Milady said quietly, smiling and gazing into his eyes as though deeply in love. Athos hated the tightness in his chest when she looked at him like that. He wished she would stop, even as he wished she would do it for real.

 

“We should dance,” Milady said, glancing around. “Everyone else has, and we want to blend in. I don’t think it would be realistic that two people as in love as we are wouldn’t want to dance at such a splendid ball.”

“How romantic you are,” Athos said bitterly. He drained his wine and then sighed. “Fine. One dance. I’m almost drunk enough.”

“Of course,” Milady said, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “I would hate to force you.”

 

They joined other couples for the minuet; Athos glared daggers at her every time their eyes met, his body remembering the steps even though it had been years since he had cause to follow them. _Looks like it was drilled into me well enough,_ he thought without satisfaction as he moved between the other dancers, barely even noticing the women he briefly enchanted, too busy scowling at Milady whenever another man touched her hand. She rolled her eyes at him whenever she returned to him, seemingly endlessly amused at his contrary nature, but she danced with light steps and without the awkwardness which Athos felt.

“You could at least pretend to enjoy it,” she said breathlessly on one reunion.

He scowled. “You weren’t forced to do this as a child.”

She laughed and moved away, and he was left looking after her wonderingly as she gave him a smile over her shoulder that looked altogether too genuine for comfort.

 

It wasn’t one dance. Milady made him stay for _all_ of the rest of the group dances. He wasn’t sure why he ever believed that she wouldn’t. He couldn’t seem to extricate himself without it looking rude, and so he stayed, dance after dance while she gave him a merrily wicked glance whenever they were parted and he followed after her with his feet knowing the steps and his head completely elsewhere.

The knowledge that she was beautiful wasn’t new; he had known her to be the most glorious woman in the world the day he had met her, and even though he knew now that he had been merely a target for her at first, he would never forget her, haloed in the sunlight in that church like an ethereal being that he couldn’t quite believe was real.

But _allowing_ himself to think it, to watch her and appreciate her without trying to pretend he wasn’t, without the overwhelming need to escape warring with his desperation to touch- _that_ was new. He quite liked it, even though he was sure it was because his head was pleasantly fuzzy from the champagne.

 

Finally, she allowed him to leave the dance floor, and he threw himself onto a chair with reckless inelegance. “Champagne,” he ordered a servant, and the man hurried to retrieve some while he sat back, panting.

“I’m dying.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Milady said, sitting in front of him and barely breathing hard. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling, and Athos envied her seemingly inexhaustible ability to pretend to be having a good time. He told her as much, and watched as she blinked hard, deflating a little.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, more concerned than he probably should feel.

“No,” she said- clearly a lie; he wasn’t that stupid.

“What? Tell me.” He leaned forward, and his eyes were wide and confused, his head tilted to one side slightly like he actually cared, and Milady had a moment where she thought- ridiculously- that she might cry. She held it in, and shook her head.

“Please-“ he said, and he reached for her hand, taking it in both of his. He was still breathing roughly, but all of his attention was on her, and she really did almost cry.

“I am having a good time,” she said, eventually, knowing he would scowl and huff and draw back into himself. She hated that the most- when he refused to engage even though there were words that had to be said. He had done it before the kiss in Rochefort’s office, and he would do it again now.

“Oh.” Athos was stumped. It hadn’t occurred to him, but he supposed she didn’t get to come to balls often these days. He glanced around them, and then shrugged, giving her a half-smile that was totally genuine. She would recognise that slightly awkward, self-effacing smile anywhere.

“It’s not the worse ball I’ve been to,” he admitted. “The company is – charming, at least.”

 

She didn’t have a reply for that, instead blinking rapidly so that he didn’t catch any wetness in her eyes. She couldn’t quite believe how this night was going; she had expected screaming, fighting- perhaps Athos was genuinely changing.

And perhaps she was, too.

“Would you like another dance?” Athos said, standing and offering his arm. He looked nervous, his eyes darting between her own and his feet, and Milady didn’t leave him standing for too long before taking his arm and nodding.

“I’d love to.”

 

\---

 

CONVENT

“I don’t know how we can repay you,” Sister Augustine said, her hand cool on Aramis’ shoulder. “You have done us a great service.”

“Will you be alright?” Constance asked, concerned.

“We will bury the dead who lie here, and we will pray for their souls,” the sister said with a firm smile. “You have all done more than we could have asked for.”

“There’s no need to repay us,” Aramis said, holding up a hand. “We are just happy to have been able to assist.” He bowed respectfully, and then asked if it would be acceptable for him to visit the chapel before he left. Sister Augustine showed him the way.

 

Constance and Elodie waited in a comfortable silence, watching Jean flirt outrageously with a pretty young nun who was trying very hard to appear unmoved and failing.

“That boy is a menace,” Constance said, somewhat approvingly. Elodie smiled.

“He’s fine.”

“You’re only saying that because he flirted with you as well.”

“Perhaps.”

They looked at each other, grinning, and pretended they hadn’t been watching as Jean kissed the hand of his chosen lady, bowed deeply, and came swaggering back to them with a smug smile.

“You’re terrible,” Constance tutted, trying to sound stern. Jean shrugged.

“I wasn’t born to ride a horse with any skill, or to use my words as a diplomat would,” he said. “But I know where my talents do lie, and will waste no time in engaging them.”

Elodie shook her head, and Jean gave her a sunny grin.

“You’re worse than Aramis,” Constance chided. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

“Aramis was gifted with looks, and, unfortunately, height, that I will never possess,” Jean laughed. “So I do what I can with what I have.”

 

Aramis reappeared, putting on his hat. “Let’s go.”

 

\--

 

The journey back was uneventful, Aramis setting an easy, lazy pace, not wanting to push the others too hard when they were tired. His shoulder ached, though the nuns had bandaged it properly, as they had with Jean’s thigh.

“Do you think Athos is alright?” Constance asked him.

“He can look after himself,” Aramis shrugged. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“But with- _her?”_

“His track record around her is not stunning,” Aramis admitted. “But they seem to be getting on a little easier, these days.”

“I still don’t trust her.”

“Neither do I, but it isn’t our business.”

“He’s drinking less again.”

“I noticed.”

Elodie cut in. “Surely that’s a good sign?”

“I think so,” Aramis sighed, “but with him, who even knows?”

Jean grunted. “He doesn’t like me.”

“Athos doesn’t like most people,” Aramis said with a rueful smile. “You are in good company.”

“It’s because of the whole-“ Jean gestured to himself. “-Isn’t it.”

“He thinks you were deceiving him,” Aramis said delicately. “And he has some severely unchecked issues about being lied to.”

“He has issues, alright.”

Aramis chuckled. “That, I can agree with.”

 

\---

 

GARRISON

They arrived in time to see Pauline attempting to get Marie-Cezette to eat an apple that had been cut into slices. Marie-Cezette was not having it; she was scowling and repeatedly saying, “ice, ICE,” to which Pauline was replying, “it is sliced, my love, look.”

“She means she doesn’t want it sliced,” Elodie said as she slid off her horse. She laughed at Pauline’s perplexed face, and offered her child a whole apple instead. Marie-Cezette grinned and stuck her tongue against it happily, her toes wiggling.

Pauline smiled, relieved. “She’s been really well behaved,” she said. “Slept well, didn’t cry. This was the first issue I’ve had.”

“Well you must have done a good job,” Elodie said, picking up the child who was still sucking at the apple. “Thank you so much, Pauline.”

She eyed Aramis and walked up to the office to speak to d’Artagnan, Jean and Constance following her discreetly.

 

“We found the nuns. They’re safe,” Aramis explained, and told her of their mission, leaving out the most gory moments.

“And the slavers shouldn’t be bothering anyone again,” he finished grimly.

“Thank you, Aramis,” she said, stifling a sob of relief and hugging him fiercely. “I knew you would help me.”

“Of course,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Always. But where will you go now?”

“I’m going back home,” she said decisively, wiping her face. “I belong there.”

“Are you sure? We could find you a house here,” Aramis began, but Pauline cut him off with a smile.

“I’m sure. You’ve done enough for me, Aramis. I owe you my life so many times over. You’re a true friend.”

Aramis embraced her again. “Will you be safe riding to the convent?”

“I’ll be fine,” she laughed. “I got here, didn’t I?”

“I’ll send an escort with you, just in case.” He hesitated, and then sighed. “Jean, perhaps- though watch him, he’ll try to flirt with you.”

“He’ll be the only Musketeer who does,” she said playfully. “You’re in love.”

Aramis thought about denying it. Instead, he shrugged eloquently and smiled, and Pauline gave him a knowing look. “I knew it.”

 

\---

 

“And all of the nuns were safe?” d’Artagnan asked, impressed.

“Thanks to Constance,” Jean replied. “She had them come screaming out of the woods with sticks. I nearly turned and ran myself!”

D’Artagnan smiled at Constance, shaking his head fondly. “You’re no good at following orders, are you?”

“It’s a good job I’m no Musketeer, then!”

D’Artagnan gave her a thoughtful look, and then laughed. “You’d be terrible.”

Jean and Elodie looked at each other, and slipped out, realising that Constance and the Captain wanted to be alone.

 

\-----

 

AUXERRE

The host of the ball met them at the entrance to the ballroom, looking anxious and harried. It was late; both of them were tired and aching and wanted nothing more than to get to their- separate- beds.

“About that,” he said, not meeting their eyes. Athos felt his heart sink, and briefly prayed for deliverance and the strength to not punch this man.

“You were- a late addition to the guest list,” he said, his words coming out too quickly and nearly rendering him unintelligible. “And I’m afraid, well, I must apologise- I mean, what I mean to say is-“

“Spit it out, man,” Milady said with a hint of impatience that Athos felt too.

“Well, I’m afraid that, unfortunately, we only had one room available due to other guests also receiving out hospitality overnight,” he said guiltily. Duke or no Duke, Athos was about five seconds from stabbing him with the knife he _knew_ Milady had stashed in her boot.

“One room?” Milady said acidly.

“Yes.”

“And how many beds?”

“….One, Comtessa.”

Athos closed his eyes and took in a deep, agonising breath.

Milady, however, was amused. _Oh, poor Athos,_ she thought with little sympathy, glancing at him and then nudging him in the ribs.

She turned on her brightest, most excited smile, and, linking her arm in his, she trilled, “Oh, how simply _exciting!_ We wouldn’t have it any other way, would we, darling?”

In a stage whisper, she leaned in to the Duke’s ear and added, “He’s dreadfully embarrassed, but we _are_ still just as silly as newlyweds, you know?” The duke nodded, his jowls wobbling, and looked rather embarrassed himself, his cheeks flushing as he no doubt imagined the Comtessa de la Fère in a compromising position.

Athos, after a long, painful silence, forced a smile that looked terrifying and nodded. “Yes, my dear. How perfect.”

“I did manage to assign your valet a small room next to yours, however,” the host said more brightly. “If you need him for anything.”

“Thank you,” Athos said woodenly, and left the ballroom with the Duke’s instructions as to their rooms echoing behind him.

 

\---

 

“P- Mousqeton?” Athos said, knocking at the door he had been told was his valet’s.

Porthos appeared looking put out and irritated. “Finally.”

“Get into our room,” Athos said, ushering him in and closing the door behind them.

Porthos took one look at the one, large bed, and burst into laughter until he had tears in his eyes. Athos waited patiently until he was calm enough to speak.

“Did you hear anything?” Athos tried after Porthos had been silent for a moment.

“I heard plenty,” he said, taking a seat and wiping his eyes. “The servants all think their masters have gone mad- there’s revolt all over the place, nobles following orders that are apparently sent direct from Condé and his supporters. They said that he wants Paris if he gets out of prison.”

“We heard the same,” Milady said from her seat at the dresser. “That would seem to confirm it.”

“And they say that Condé himself has been allied with the revolt since before the pamphlets were printed,” Porthos continued, “but they had no proof. I heard that the riots are being shut down as quickly as they pop up now, though- I guess that means our soldiers are doing their job, at least.”

 

“Good,” Athos nodded, embracing his friend. “I am sorry you had to come like this. I didn’t intend to humiliate you.”

“Not half as sorry as I am. Did you see the food? It was tiny.”

“It generally is at soirees,” Milady said. “Not everyone eats like a pig.”

“Tiny,” Porthos repeated. “And I wasn’t allowed to eat much of it. Just leftovers from you fancy bastards.”

“You can eat when we get home,” Athos said with a sigh.

“Not if you get to it first,” Porthos grunted. Athos shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed. A sly grin spread across Porthos’ face again, slowly. He looked thoroughly amused with himself, and Athos gave him an icy glare until he controlled himself.

“Something amusing you?” Milady asked sweetly.

“No. Sleep well,” Porthos shot back with a grin, standing and leaving the room hurriedly. They heard him laughing until his own door swung shut behind him.

 

\---

 

As soon as they were alone, Athos began piling pillows, cushions and spare clothing into the centre of the bed, making a wall right down the middle.

“This is your side,” he said grimly, “and this is mine.”

Milady laughed at him. “Honestly, Athos, are your delicate sensibilities that affronted at the idea of seeing your _wife_ in her bedclothes?”

He gave her a look and continued piling the cushions.

 _This is going to be hell, how do I even manage to sleep in the same bed as her?_ he thought wildly. _I haven’t slept in a bed with her since the night before she murdered- before Thomas tried to-_

He groaned inwardly, not watching Milady because surely she would be undressing and the last thing he needed was _that_ right now. He had spent five years reliving every moment that they had spent together in their bed, remembering the curve of her smile against his skin, the delicious softness of her hair against his face; thinking _never again. I’ll never kiss her like this again, I’ll never wrap my arms around her, never wake up beside her, it’s all gone and everything is ruined_ until he became numb to it, he’d thought. And then she hadn’t been dead and the wounds had re-opened along with a fresh spill of guilt and shame because he had been _wrong_ to do it despite pretending he had the moral high ground-

And now here they were, and he couldn’t bring himself to touch her because he would be lost.

“Athos?”

He turned, half expecting her to be already undressed, and found her watching him warily instead.

“What.”

“I need you to unlace me,” she said, gesturing behind her.

“Do it yourself,” he grunted.

“I can’t,” she replied as if explaining to a child. “But I can call Porthos to do it, if you’d prefer.”

“No.” With trepidation, he moved towards her, and she turned from him to allow him access. Her hair fell loose down her back, soft and inviting, and he licked his lips, fumbling at the laces with trembling hands until he managed to get some control of his emotion and unknotted them, beginning to slide them out of the eyelets with agonising care.

A memory flashed unbidden in his mind- of her, in her wedding gown, asking him to do the same thing for her. Of his hands, trembling just as they were now. Of his breathless delight at watching her appear out of her dress like a butterfly from a cocoon, shedding it like a second skin until she was naked before him, shy and smiling.

He shook the memory from him violently, and finished unlacing her, turning away quickly so that she didn’t see the obvious evidence of his arousal.

“Are you well?” she asked, sounding amused.

“Shut up.”

 

He unbuttoned his doublet, pulled off his boots, and unlaced his breeches, tossing them all unceremoniously onto a chair. He hesitated before tugging his shirt over his head, leaving him only in his underwear. Even just having his chest bare with her in the room felt vulnerable, but he couldn’t sleep in that scratchy shirt if he tried.

He waited until he felt the bed creak as she slid in, and then turned, climbing into his side awkwardly and keeping as far away from the centre as possible. She gave him a deeply unsympathetic look across the divide.

“I’m in a nightgown, you know,” she said. “You don’t need to avert your virgin eyes.”

He sighed, painfully aware that this was going to be one of the longest, least comfortable nights he would spend in his lifetime, and rolled onto his side away from her.

 

 _He still looks good,_ she thought, watching him. _A few more scars, a little more muscle than I remember._ She recalled how handsome he had been when they first met; how she had thought _good- this one, I can live with-_ when she knew she had him in her grasp finally. She knew he had been in love with her from the moment he first spoke to her in the church; his eyes were bright blue and wide, so open and earnest that she thought she might be sick. She never thought that she would grow to need that earnest look, to feel like she was the only person in the world when he looked at her like that.

 

His gaze was less trusting now, wary and jaded, and she knew it was her doing. She even felt guilty about it, knowing that she had started the rot that had devastated him, even if he had deserved it. But earlier- earlier, she had seen the boy in those eyes, had caught a glimpse of his trust, and it had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.

Being in the same bed as him was a rather unwanted trip down memory lane- one she had thought she was over.

 

“Goodnight, dear husband,” she sang out, and he could hear her laughter even in those words. He blew the candles out and debated saying nothing.

 

“Goodnight,” he said grudgingly, and felt her settle back into the bed in satisfaction.

He closed his eyes, tried to ignore the sound of her even breathing, and willed himself to sleep, the champagne he had managed to down throughout the day a definite advantage.

 

\----

 

GARRISON

 

_A-_

_Situation looking difficult. May have to release C- if revolt continues. Pressure from many sides._

_All are well, comfortable and being well looked after._

_All my love, as always_

_A-_

The letter was brief and to the point, but Aramis was pleased despite the grim implication of releasing Condé. She was well, and she gave him her love; and what else could he hope for at this point?

Jean was escorting Pauline to her convent, Elodie was practising with her bow in the yard, and Constance and d’Artagnan had yet to emerge from their bedroom, despite it being late in the evening.  It was around now that Aramis would be doing paperwork for the Palace; endless lists of things to do and people to meet with, documents to sign and wax to be melted. He barely had time to see his son anyway, despite being so close- and he hated it. He hated the job more than he had wanted to admit, the bonus of being close to Anne and his child barely worth the tedious monotony of the position. He felt it even more keenly now, now that he’d been here with his friends again, had ridden out to fight- even being injured was more interesting than signing one more damn letter.

He wondered how he could maintain his relationship with Anne if he resigned, and suspected that it would be barely any different than it was now, only with a better outfit.

 

He relaxed on his seat, watching some of the cadets sparring. They’d had a few more recruits recently, and they all seemed to be shaping up well, to his surprise. Soon the garrison might have a full complement of Musketeers again, and that would be a welcome sight after the destruction and devastation he had seen when the garrison was blown up. So many good men had died there. It still wounded him to think of it.

 _What I wouldn’t give to wear that uniform again,_ he thought. Athos had walked away from it and returned as easily as if he had only been on holiday. But he- he had a duty, to his Queen, and he could not ignore it until he was released.

 

“Are you busy?”

“No, of course not,” he smiled, shifting to let Elodie sit with him. “I was just thinking.”

She nodded, watching the cadets for a moment with him. “Do you miss it?”

“I do,” he admitted with a sad smile.

“I can see why you would,” she said quietly. “This is more like a family than any real one I’ve known.”

Aramis nodded. “The Musketeers does seem to take in the stragglers and make them a home,” he said. "It’s done it again and again over the years. I should stop being surprised.”

“I didn’t know if they would take me in,” Elodie said. “I’d only met Porthos once; I didn’t even know if he would remember me.”

“Trust me, he remembered you,” Aramis said, giving her a grin over his shoulder.

She blushed. “We’re safe here, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Aramis said it with certainty. “Yes, the garrison will look after its own.”

 

\----

 

AUXERRE

Milady was woken in the night by screaming.

She jolted awake, terrified and reaching for her knife, before realising that it was _Athos_ screaming, his limbs thrashing and scattering pillows and cushions onto the floor. She watched him for a moment, frozen; he was sweating and crying and seemed to be in agony, and before she could think about it, she scooted closer to him in the bed, discarding the remains of the barrier, and put her hands on his shoulders, feeling him clammy and shaking under her fingertips.

“Athos,” she hissed urgently, squeezing his shoulders. “Athos, wake up, wake up-“

 

The screaming stopped abruptly, and Athos’ eyes shot open, his hands groping for her in the semi-darkness and gripping her arms. His breathing was ragged, choked sobs escaping, his eyes wet with tears, and he stared at her uncomprehendingly for a long, silent moment, trembling.

Suddenly, he recognised her, and his hands fell away from her, his body going rigid and tense and his face beginning to close up from the raw emotion of the moment before. Milady grabbed his chin and pulled him back to face her. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Athos, don’t you _dare_ –“

“I had a nightmare,” he mumbled, ashamed and trying to pull back from her. “Leave me alone.”

“A nightmare?” It sounded ridiculous, childish. She wondered what on earth could reduce him to such terror. “What about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath as he calmed himself. “It happens every night.”

“Every night?”

“Yes. Since-“ he stopped himself.

“Since what?” she urged, suddenly having an idea of what it was but needing him to say it.

“Since I killed you.” He opened his eyes again, searching her face for ridicule. “I see it. Every night. You hang from that _damn_ tree and I can’t move and you scream for me and I try to scream but no words come out. I can’t get to you. I can’t save you.” He stopped, and then said, brokenly, “I should have saved you.”

 

Milady didn’t know what to say to that. She stared at him for a long, painful moment, the only sounds his harsh breathing and the rush of blood in her ears.

“I’m still here,” she said quietly, and daringly, she moved her hand to touch his face, her thumb caressing his cheek. “I’m still alive.”

He swallowed thickly and looked at her with that stupid, hopeful expression she had loved and despised in equal measure through the years. “No thanks to me. “ His hand crept to her throat; she had taken her choker off to sleep in, and she tensed as his fingertips ghosted over the scar there.

_Why is he touching that? It’s hideous, what is he thinking- why doesn’t he look disgusted-what is he going to do-_

Her other hand brushed the chain around his neck, and she glanced down, frowning.

 _That’s my locket._ How had she not noticed it earlier? More importantly, why was he wearing it again? She lifted it in shaking fingers, looking at him quizzically. He looked at it as though remembering he was wearing it for the first time.

“D’Artagnan picked it up when I dropped it,” he said hoarsely. “He kept it for me.”

“And you’re wearing it again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He had no good answer for that, other than it felt right to have its weight against his skin again; it felt like he was putting the final piece of himself back into place to have it close to his heart. He shook his head mutely, unable to articulate it, and closed his hand around hers, the locket digging into her palm.

 

She felt as though her world had changed so many times over the course of this last forty-eight hours that she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

 

 _Still, what’s one more risk,_ she thought recklessly. Hesitantly, she lowered her head to him, kissing him softly- more softly than she had dared last time, in the rain, even. He froze, his breath stilling, and for one terrible moment she thought he was going to shrug her off, tell her that he couldn’t forget what she had done or who she was.

And then he was kissing her back, and his heart was beating so fast that he feared she could hear it through his skin. From a tentative start, the kiss became hungry and desperate, Athos rolling them so she was on her back, their eyes meeting in a silent _if we do this, we can’t go back_.

 _Fuck going back_ , Athos thought, and kissed her again, slowly and deliberately. She opened her eyes when he pulled back, and the darkness in his gaze made her shiver deliciously.

 _So this is what it’s like when we don’t lie,_ she thought- and then she couldn’t think anymore, his hands tugging impatiently at her night gown, needy and endearing, his own underwear discarded and pushed out of the way carelessly. She felt his erection against her thigh, hard and insistent, and had a brief moment of terror where she realised that this changed everything; but then his lips were on her neck, kissing her scars with reverent apology more eloquent than his words ever were, and he was inside her and it didn’t matter anymore, nothing mattered except his weight on her, the feeling of them moving together like they had always been supposed to, the sound of his breathing against her neck, rough and growling and possessive, and the knowledge that there was nothing between them anymore- she didn’t have to play the virginal peasant girl, he still wanted her regardless of everything he knew about her- and he was willing to admit it to himself, finally.

 

\----

 

CARRIAGE

The next morning, Porthos loaded the luggage with even less good grace than the last time, climbing up into his seat silently. Athos and Milady had barely spoken; every time they tried, they trailed off in an awkward, embarrassed sort of way, neither quite sure how to go back to the usual biting comments or outright arguments that usually peppered their conversation.

The carriage rolled along the streets of Burgundy, finally leaving it behind in favour of countryside; rolling fields and empty roads going past the windows. Hours passed in a semi-silent, relatively comfortable way, until Athos fell asleep on her shoulder, fighting it for a long time until he couldn’t hold his head up any longer. She sat still and quiet as if there was a kitten sleeping in her lap, unwilling to disturb him when he was actually sleeping solidly. She wondered how on earth he had managed with such bad sleep for so long, and realised that the answer was the drink. He drank himself to sleep because he was scared to do it without. Because the wine made it easier for him to pass out, made him forget the nightmares once he woke up.

 

He still hadn’t apologised to her, not really. She thought about that; wondered if he ever would, wondered if they would ever actually have a discussion about everything that had happened between them without breaking it off to fight, or to- well. She smiled to herself. Maybe _that_ wasn’t so bad. She wondered if she would ever be able to look him in the eye and know that he saw everything she was, everything she had been, and tell her that he loved her anyway. Did he love her, still? Was this love, or was it the best he could give her right now. Would he ever even _say_ either way.

Why did she even care if he loved her? She should want to hurt him for everything he had done, should want him to be miserable and lonely.

She closed her eyes and cursed herself.

_Why does it matter to me so much?_

_You know why._

She felt like a sentimental, weak little girl who knew nothing of the world; she hated feeling like this, hated the uncertainty. She had spent years making herself strong, making herself into someone formidable and terrifying. Why did she allow him to undo her as easily as her lacings?

 

When they stopped at the inn that night, they didn’t sleep in separate rooms.

 

\---

 

 

GARRISON

They arrived back at the garrison exhausted, hot, and completely tired of travelling.

“Get my bags,” Milady ordered Porthos, who grinned at her, took her bags from the carriage, and dropped them into the dust of the yard with gleeful satisfaction. Athos’ lip twitched in amusement but he managed to hide it. She gave Porthos a filthy look that wasn’t entirely serious, and then watched as Athos picked up her luggage silently and put it neatly on the table.

“I ain’t a servant,” Porthos grunted, and ran off to find Elodie, shouting her name. She appeared in the doorway with Marie-Cezette in her arms, and Porthos wrapped them both in a hug that engulfed their bodies, kissing them.

 

“Welcome back,” Aramis smiled, leaning over the balcony with d’Artagnan and Constance behind him.

“Had a quiet time?” Athos asked, squinting up at them.

“Oh, you know. Uneventful,” d’Artagnan said, his mouth curling into a smile. “Isn’t that right, Constance?”

“Completely,” she agreed, too quickly. “Nothing at all happening here. What about you? Did you find anything?”

Athos narrowed his eyes at them. “Get down here and tell me what happened.”

 

Later, with several drinks down him and an explanation from d’Artagnan, Athos told Aramis what they had learned at the ball. Milady was sat beside him on the bench, Porthos next to her, and Aramis, Constance and d’Artagnan opposite them. Evening had fallen, the candles were lit, and everyone was in a good mood now that they were reunited.

“So it seems we were right,” he finished with a shrug. “Condé is behind it after all, and releasing him might be a terrible mistake.”

“I received a letter from the Queen,” Aramis said uneasily. “It seems there is a lot of pressure to release the Prince. I’m not sure how long we can keep him imprisoned, despite this new evidence.”

“So our entire trip was worthless?” Athos sighed irritably.

“Not entirely worthless,” Milady said with a sly glance at him. “You have my respect.”

She stood to leave before he could find an answer, and automatically, he reached out to take her arm.

“You don’t have to go yet,” he said, looking at the table.

She sat back down to the disbelieving silence of the Musketeers, except Aramis, who smugly reached out a hand to a dismayed looking d’Artagnan and took a small purse of coins from his reluctant grip.

“You had a _bet_?” Athos growled.

Aramis tipped his hat to Athos and smiled. “More wine?”

“I hate you all.”


	7. EPISODE SEVEN: "UNWELCOME GUESTS"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is Elodie plot, surprisingly.  
> Little bit of Milathos, too. Build up to the next episode where the action starts.  
> Next episode will be more d'Artagnan-POV for people who are wondering.  
> thank you to everyone still with me!

 

EPISODE SEVEN: UNWELCOME GUESTS

 

 

GARRISON

“Your Eminence,” Aramis said in surprise, standing as Mazarin entered the garrison in a carriage.

He looked harried as he stepped out, glancing around warily before hurrying to Aramis.

“Aramis,” he greeted, looking nervously behind him.

“I wasn’t expecting you to return- is her Majesty with you?” Aramis leaned past him, trying to see inside the carriage. Mazarin shook his head, looking pityingly at Aramis.

“I’m afraid not; and I must apologise, I am not remaining here.”

“Why? What’s going on?” d’Artagnan asked, standing and moving beside Aramis.

“I am travelling to Italy,” Mazarin explained, licking his lips. “My safety is in jeopardy, especially now.” He paused, thrusting a letter into Aramis’ hand. “From the Queen,” he said quietly.

Aramis felt his suspicions rise again, but forced them down. He had promised himself- and God- that he would stop those thoughts.

“Especially now?” D’Artagnan frowned. “Why?”

“Condé is being released,” Mazarin grimaced, bobbing his head nervously. “There was simply not enough evidence, and too much pressure from the nobles and from Parlement.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, frustrated. “I can’t believe it!”

“It gets worse,” Mazarin said. “It seems that the report your colleagues gave was accurate. Condé is planning to attack Paris- and likely, it will be sooner rather than later.”

“Does he have the men?” Aramis asked.

“If he allies with his nobles and their men; and if Parlement assist him- then yes, I’m afraid he does.”

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan glanced at each other.

“Is there nothing we can do?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Nothing except prepare for the worst,” Mazarin said, grimly. “I am sorry to bring you this news.”

Aramis shook his head. “I don’t understand. Is her Majesty returning to Paris?”

“She will remain in Saint Germain,” Mazarin said. “It is safe there, and she is heavily guarded, especially now that the troops have returned to us.” He looked at Aramis’ worried expression. “She will be fine,” he assured him. Aramis nodded, barely hearing his words.

“I should go to her,” he said.

“She told me you would say that, and said to give you the letter,” Mazarin smiled.

Aramis opened it with shaking hands. It had been written less vaguely than usual, probably because it was being delivered by hand.

 

_Aramis-_

_Do not leave Paris. I beseech you, you are required there, with your friends and our soldiers. I am fine, I am well as is my son. We are guarded and well looked after. I swear it._

_Condé will be released as soon as my letter is delivered to the Bastille; I cannot keep him imprisoned any longer, and I am sorry. If he attacks Paris, you have my full authority- as the bearer of this letter- to defend it to your last. The troops will be under the direction of the Musketeers, and at your disposal._

_Please accept my thoughts, my prayers- and as always, my love._

_Anne_

Aramis smiled, despite himself. She knew him more than he gave her credit for.

“I will stay,” he said with a sigh. He passed the letter to d’Artagnan, who scanned it quickly and then gave it back.

 

“And now, I leave for Italy,” Mazarin said apologetically. “I will return when it is safe for me to do so.” He bowed to Aramis and d’Artagnan and left swiftly in his carriage, barely glancing back.

 

Athos and Porthos rode into the garrison just as the carriage was leaving, looking at it curiously as they dismounted.

“Who was that?” Athos asked.

“Mazarin,” Aramis replied, giving him a brief rundown of the conversation. Athos nodded. “At least the revolts are under control,” he said with a shrug. “One less problem.”

“I take it your trip went well, then.”

Porthos nodded. “We visited as many places as we could. The soldiers are doing a decent job out there; looks like the trouble will be done sooner rather than later.” 

D’Artagnan sighed in relief. “That’s good. We could use them back in Paris if anything happens.”

“It seems as though it’s _when_ , rather than if,” Athos remarked.

Porthos grunted in agreement.

“We should make preparations,” d’Artagnan said with a glance at Aramis. “Check our stores. Order more gunpowder, clean the weapons, that sort of thing.” Aramis nodded and disappeared off to round up some cadets to help his count.

“Athos- I know you’ve just got back, but can you head into the city and see if you can get the soldiers to start fortifying their positions? Tell them it’s the Queen’s orders.”

Athos nodded and put down the bottle he had just picked up, climbing back into the saddle and spurring his horse out of the gate without a word.

 

“I’ll get Constance to gather us some food stores,” d’Artagnan continued thoughtfully. “Can Elodie check all of the horses? We’ll need them sound and healthy.”

Porthos nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

“And then can you and Jean go and see if any of the people will join us- they don’t need to be recruited to the Musketeers, just see if they’re willing to help us defend Paris if the worst happens. I’m sorry, Porthos,” he added as he saw Porthos’ longing glance towards his rooms. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need you to.”

“It’s alright,” Porthos sighed, gripping d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “No rest for the wicked, eh?”

He went into the stables to talk to Elodie before he left.

 

\---

 

 

 PARIS

Athos headed out to the makeshift barracks scattered throughout the city, delivering the news and asking if they could be counted on. He had little trouble; the soldiers knew him and the Musketeers by now, and knew them to be brave and loyal. They even offered to build extra fortifications at the garrison if needed. In exchange, Athos said he would have extra wine delivered to them, and they said goodbye to him enthusiastically, hailing him as a hero. A little extreme, but if it got him the help they needed, he would take it.

He was riding back from the last outpost when he head hoofbeats behind him, and turned in the saddle to see Milady catching up to him.

 

He gave her a hesitant nod, and slowed his horse so that she could ride abreast of him. She looked as though she had been riding hard; her hair windblown and her face flushed. She gave Athos a smile as she joined him.

“Good morning,” she greeted him. “It’s rare to see you out of bed this early. Especially sober.”

“I’ve been away on a mission,” he said, not rising to her bait. “Didn’t get a chance to get drunk before he sent me back out, more’s the pity. If I’d known I’d be seeing you, I’d have brought the bottle with me.”

His tone was mild, giving her a sidelong glance with an almost-smile as he spoke.

“And in a good mood, too,” she laughed. “It must be Christmas.”

 

He hadn’t seen Milady since the night they had returned from Burgundy- he had been sent straight off with Porthos a couple of days later, to check the situation in the provinces, and hadn’t had a chance to speak to her.

To be honest, he wasn’t exactly sure what sort of footing they were on. They had barely discussed what had happened in Burgundy, certainly not the night they returned. They had been … busy. He smiled a little at the memory.

Certainly, things seemed to be less tense than they had- a lot of important things had been said, even if Athos was aching with the things that he _hadn’t_ yet told her; that he was a wreck without her, that all he had thought about for five years was the possibility that he had been wrong, that she had been the one good thing in his life and that he was _sorry_ for everything that he had done to her. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to say that. His pride, his stubborn nature- they always won out, in the end.

 

She eyed him, wondering what was going on in those sad eyes of his. She wanted to ask if they were alright, if anything had changed since Burgundy, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t afford to lose what they had.

She couldn’t look at him now without seeing the broken, crying man she had woken up in the night. She wondered at the fact that she hadn’t seen him in all the years before.

 

“Condé is likely to attack Paris,” Athos said suddenly, breaking out of his reverie and disturbing hers, too.

“I thought-“

“He’s being released.” Athos grimaced, shaking his head in disgust. “It will be a bloodbath.”

“I had orders from the Queen to continue taking down Mazarin’s opponents,” she said, musingly. “But I suppose that might be less important if we’re under siege.”

“Will you stand with us?” Athos asked on a whim, not sure why he asked and feeling ridiculous. Milady never took a side if she didn’t have to, and this was not her fight.

 

“What, and fight against Condé’s entire army with a bunch of idiot Musketeers and some drunken soldiers?”

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Alright.”

“You will?”

“Yes. As long as you’re not tiresome and insist that I stay out of the way- or worse, help the wounded.”

Athos’ lips twitched in amusement. “I would not dare.”

“Good.”

He rolled his eyes at her satisfied air, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

 

 

\----

 

 

GARRISON

D’Artagnan looked up, narrowing his eyes as he heard a horse riding in through the gates. He didn’t recognise the horse; it was a bay mare, large and not well-fed, by the looks of it. On it sat a man he didn’t know; tall and well-built, with sandy blond hair and dark, intelligent eyes. D’Artagnan went to greet him, pushing his hat back a little from his eyes.

 

“Can I help you, monsieur?” he asked politely as the man stopped his horse and climbed down from the saddle.

“I’m looking for my wife,” the man said with a hopeful smile. “I heard she came here?”

D’Artagnan frowned. “I’m not sure I know who you mean,” he admitted. “Who are you looking for?”

“Her name is Elodie. She would have a child with her- somewhere between a year and two years old now?”

D’Artagnan’s blood ran cold and he did all he could to not allow his face to betray his emotion. He licked his lips, and tried to think what to say. He assumed, _‘sorry, but she married my friend already’_ was perhaps not the best response.

He was spared, however, as Elodie had heard the horse arriving and came out to take it to the stable.

“Elodie,” the man said, his face lighting up. He slid out of the saddle and went to her, his arms outstretched. D'Artagnan caught a glimpse of her face, pale and shocked, as she hugged him back half-heartedly, letting go quickly and staring up into his face with an expression so dazed that d’Artagnan worried she would faint.

“Arnaud,” she said, her voice barely audible. “What are you doing here?” Her arms hung limply by her sides.

“I heard you lived in the garrison,” he explained, but Elodie shook her head.

“No. I mean- I thought you were _dead_.” Her eyes filled with tears, and d’Artagnan left her to it, keeping within earshot in case anything went wrong.

 

“I was injured,” Arnaud said, placing his hands on Elodie’s shoulders. She forced herself not to flinch, the touch feeling familiar but _wrong_ , so wrong even though she knew it shouldn’t. “Only a few of us survived. I couldn’t find you when I came back, I’ve been looking for you since- are you alright?”

Elodie nodded, taking a breath and forcing herself to be calm. “Arnaud,” she said, needing him to know what had happened, everything that had led her here. “I have to-“

“Where is our child?” he asked eagerly. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A girl,” she answered hesitantly. _Our child._ _Porthos has raised her as his own- she is as much his as she is Arnaud’s._ “Marie-Cezette.”

“That’s an odd choice for a name,” Arnaud said, but he smiled anyway. Elodie shook her head, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. “Arnaud-“ she tried again. “Listen to me.”

Arnaud wasn’t really listening- a trait Elodie had always been frustrated by- but he nodded vaguely and said, “Mmm?” so she forged ahead.

“I met the Musketeers when we were living in the forest,” she began. “One of them helped to deliver the baby.”

“I’ll have to thank him before we leave, then,” Arnaud said.

“Leave?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take you home. Can I see my daughter?”

“She’s sleeping,” Elodie said, her tongue feeling leaden. “I’ll show you, but you have to be quiet.”

She led him into her and Porthos’ rooms, to the cot where Marie-Cezette was napping after breakfast. Arnaud stared at her silently, grinning, and didn’t seem to notice the man’s clothing scattered around the rooms or the swords hanging from the hook behind the door.

“She looks just like you,” Arnaud said finally, following Elodie back into the yard. “She’s beautiful.”

 

 _How on earth do I tell him this,_ she thought desperately, closing her eyes for a moment to try and compose herself.

“Arnaud,” she started for a third time. “Please, I have to tell you something-“

But again, she didn’t have the chance to speak, as with a clatter of hooves, Porthos and Jean returned to the garrison.

 _Please no, not yet, not now-_ she thought wildly, and prepared for trouble. “Arnaud. I thought you were dead. Listen to me- please. I had no hope of you returning, do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Arnaud said, frowning. “But what are you saying?”

“I’m _saying,_ ” Elodie said, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, “that I left the forest- I came _here-_ to find the man who helped me deliver the child.” Porthos walked over to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, kissing her on the top of her head while Arnaud’s face clouded over.

“This is that man. Arnaud, I’m sorry- but- I married him.”

 

\----

 

PARIS

Aramis and Constance went together to pick up supplies; both of them needed the cart, and it seemed obvious to do it in one trip.

“I have to visit the cemetery first,” Constance said with an apologetic smile, and Aramis nodded agreeably.

“Whose grave are we visiting?” he asked as they walked into the cemetery, Constance holding a bouquet of pink carnations.

“Lemay,” she answered, placing the flowers on the grave. It had been given the headstone promised by the Queen; simply stating his name and dates of birth and death, as well as a small inscription which Constance had been allowed to choose. It read: “A great man, and a true friend.”

“Ah,” Aramis nodded. “Of course.” He removed his hat and knelt beside Constance at the grave, silent and respectful while she fussed with the flowers and picked at a few stray leaves that had blown onto the grass too near for her liking.

“I know that it was you who found out where he was for Athos,” she said finally. “Thank you.”

“It was no trouble,” he replied, and then fell silent while Constance paid her respects.

 

They moved on after a few minutes, and drove the cart into the city. Aramis had a long, dull list of things he required, and Constance needed to buy enough food to keep them going in case of siege, and neither of them found the prospect of the long, tiring job ahead particularly exciting.

“Where are we going first?”

“I suppose,” Constance sighed, “That we should get the food last. So what’s first on your list?”

“Horse shoes.”

“Then the smith it is.”

 

Two hours later, they were both becoming irritated. Everywhere seemed to be running low on supplies, and they were having to pay through the nose to get anything they needed.

“I’m sure I paid three times as much for those barrels of powder as I did last time,” Aramis frowned. Aramis never scowled; Constance had learned over the years that a tiny deepening of Aramis’ frown meant he was enraged, but he didn’t lower himself to an ugly scowl, leaving that for the other three. She thought it was hilarious and endearing. She was also sure he was trying to avoid wrinkles, but kept that thought to herself.

“And this food is costing twice my budget,” she said glumly, glancing back at the sacks and boxes in the cart. “Still, if it keeps us alive, I suppose we can afford it.”

“It’s the soldiers,” Aramis explained. “There are so many of them in the city that they’re running the stores low, and we’re having to pay a premium for the same privilege.”

“I’ll be glad when this is all over,” Constance sighed.

“I don’t know,” Aramis smiled at her. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a little more action in the field? You seemed to take to it rather well.”

Constance gave him a grin. “I did enjoy riding out-like a proper Musketeer.”

 

“Perhaps you’ll get to fight again,” Aramis said, suddenly serious. “If Condé gets his way, we’ll all be needed to defend the garrison- and the city.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that. Let’s go back, I think we’re done here.”

\---

 

 

GARRISON

“Who is this?” Porthos asked in the silence that followed her announcement to Arnaud.

“I’m her _husband_ ,” Arnaud said, incredulous. “Who are you?”

“I’m her husband.” It came out like a growl; he hadn’t meant it to. He saw Arnaud glance between him and Elodie, watched him trying to process the information, and he felt a vague sense of pity for the man- it wasn’t his fault, after all. He wanted to offer some kind of reconciliation, but found that he couldn’t, he just simply could not make the words to say anything that he wouldn’t mean.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Arnaud said, laughing, disbelieving. “Of course you’re not. Elodie, come on. We need to go home.”

“This is my home now, Arnaud.”

“You belong with me- I’m your husband, the baby is mine, we’re a family, remember?” He looked a little lost, and Elodie recalled that boyish, innocent look that had attracted her to Arnaud in the first place. And she did still love him- in the gentle, nostalgic way that one did when a loved one had passed. She had healed, had moved on in the knowledge that Arnaud would want her to be happy, would want her to carry on without him.

She had found Porthos, and had made a new life.

_The baby is mine._

It sounded wrong when he said that, though she could offer no explanation for it. She shook her head mutely.

 

Arnaud looked between her and Porthos again, and his gaze settled on the Musketeer, his eyes narrowing.  “You took her from me.”

“Oi,” Porthos frowned. “I didn’t _take_ anything. She’s a free woman.”

“She isn’t free, she’s my wife.”

Elodie rolled her eyes. “ _She_ is right here.”

“Tell him, Elodie. Tell him that you’re coming home with me.”

Elodie said nothing, glaring at them both. Arnaud clenched his hands into tight fists. “I’m not leaving without her,” he said to Porthos. Porthos glanced to Elodie and shrugged.

“You might be here a while then. I’ll get you a room sorted.”

The thought of losing Elodie was unimaginable. Porthos had settled down- something he had often joked about and never really imagined- and he was _happy_ with Elodie and with little Marie-Cezette, who he couldn’t help but think of as _his_ child even though she was biologically Arnaud’s. He loved Elodie, simply and easily. He would fight for her if he had to- but he would prefer it to be her choice, and hers alone.

 

Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that Arnaud had the more reasonable claim. He was her husband before Porthos had ever known Elodie, and it was hardly his fault that she had thought him dead.

He raised his hands, trying to be peaceful. “Look,” he said. “Let’s have a drink, talk about this, yeah?”

“What is there to talk about?” Arnaud said. “She is my wife, and therefore, she is coming with me. Elodie, stop this nonsense.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Arnaud,” Elodie sighed. “Come on, sit with us.” She walked away from him to the table, assuming rightly that he would follow her.

Porthos and Arnaud stared at each other across the table while Elodie explained her story to Arnaud- from the Musketeers arrival, through the fight for their village, and ending with her journey to Paris to find the man who had been kind to her.

“But-“ Arnaud said, finally, his brow creased in consternation. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve told you everything,” Elodie sighed patiently. “As far as I knew, I was a widow. There were no reported survivors from your unit, Arnaud.” She placed her hand on his for a moment, and Porthos choked back his irrational anger. “I’m sorry. I’m so glad that you’re alive, but…”

“I can make you come back with me, you know,” he said with sudden, surprising force. “You’re still my wife, and the child is mine.”

“We’re not coming with you.” Elodie said it firmly and as gently as possible. She was always on edge around Arnaud- he was a gentle, caring man who had a quick, terrifying temper, and it was unpredictable. She had no wish for this to end with violence. She had absolutely no doubt that Porthos would prevail.

Arnaud stood, hesitating, glancing between them. He seemed to deflate a little, nodding.

“Fine. I’ll just leave.”

 _I don’t trust him,_ Elodie thought, noting the quick darting of his eyes and the tense stance. But she smiled, and stood, watching him warily. “Thank you.”

Porthos glared at him with one hand on his pistol, sure that something was about to happen, but Arnaud climbed into the saddle and rode off quickly without another word.

Elodie sank back onto the bench, and sobbed silently with her head in her arms. Porthos sat awkwardly next to her, his hand steady on the small of her back and his mind reeling.

_This isn’t the end of it._

 

 

\--

 

PARIS

Athos found himself taking a long, meandering route back to the garrison, Milady riding at his side. She didn’t comment on his bizarre route; content to let him work out his silence, she said nothing and waited for him to deal with whatever it was he was thinking about.

They wound their way through the streets and ended up at a tavern, tucked away in the corner of a shabby looking street. Milady made a disgusted noise and glanced at Athos.

“Really? We came all this way so that you could get drunk?”

“Would you like to have a drink with me?” Athos said abruptly, not looking at her. He dismounted and tied his horse, waiting for her decision with his arms folded and his hat pulled low over his eyes.

Milady stared at him for a moment before getting out of the saddle and joining him. He kept asking her if she would like to do things with him. It was becoming  a habit, and it was a little perplexing coming from a man who could barely form more than a sentence at a time without grunting his way through it.

They entered the tavern and Milady found a table in the corner while Athos disappeared off to buy drinks.

 _He’s paying, too,_ she thought with amusement. This development was interesting; it felt as though they were trying to begin again, awkward conversations and stilted offers of company like they barely knew each other.

 _I suppose we have the best- and worst- of both worlds,_ she reflected. They were married; they had shared a bed, had lived together, and now they also knew each other’s true natures- but they had started their marriage on a lie, and had never truly recovered from it, second guessing and outright disbelieving each other ever since.

She didn’t have time to think for long, because there was Athos, winding his way through people and past other tables with the drinks held high and a determined look on his face.

He sat opposite her, and pushed over a glass, pouring her some wine. “It’s Anjou,” he said when she sniffed it tentatively.

 

“Athos, are you trying to court me?” Milady said with a raised eyebrow, half-joking.

He flushed such a sudden and deep shade of crimson that she was alarmed. _Oh, he actually is._ She felt sorry that she had said it in such an offhand manner, and took a long drink, averting her eyes until he got himself under control again.

 _He’s almost sweet,_ she thought with amusement. _And he’s making an effort._ She wished, suddenly, that she could be that naïve girl she had pretended to be years ago; that she could fall helplessly and happily right back into his arms as if nothing had come between them. She was too distrustful, too hurt and too clever to be like that, certainly now- but still. She tried to help him, wanting him to keep trying, wanting him to not give up on her.

“Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. He had gone paler again, and he refilled her glass without comment.

After a moment’s silence, Athos asked, “How are you?”

Such a simple question, and yet so difficult to answer. She hesitated, picking at the rim of her glass, and thought about how best to reply.

“I’ve been well,” she said, finally, knowing it was a non-answer. “I mean,” she let out a breath, smiling at him guardedly. “I don’t know what I mean.”

“Where are you living?”

“I was living at the Palace, until recently,” she said with a frown. “I left when the Queen did. Now I’m renting rooms not far from the garrison. Why?”

Athos shrugged.  _I wanted to make sure you have somewhere to stay._

 “Do you…have enough money?”

“I think we’re past charity, Athos.”

“I wasn’t-“ he paused, took a drink, and finally met her eyes. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I just- I don’t want you to be struggling.”

She was struck, as she often was, by his eyes. He seemed utterly unable to stop his emotions from blazing out of them- whether it was fury, wretched pain, or hope, his eyes couldn’t lie.

She sighed, unable to remain defensive with him looking at her like that. “I’m fine, Athos. I don’t need money.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied that she wasn’t lying.

“And you?” It seemed like a stupid question; he never really answered questions like that, preferring to drink until he passed out and could ignore the crippling weight of his problems.

“I’ve been worse,” he grunted, with a twitch of his lips. He gave her one of those rare, amused half-smiles, rolling his glass between his palms idly. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About anything interesting?” She made the question sound casual, bored even; but the truth was, she couldn’t remember the last time he had actually offered up information about something as simple as how he was, and she was curious.

“About Sylvie.”

 

_Oh, for the love of-_

“Yes?” she said, acidly, draining her glass and preparing to walk out. He took her hand, filled her glass again with the other, and waited until she sat down again before he continued.

“Let me finish.”

“Please, do tell me all about your lover.”

He waited patiently for her to subside. “Fine, go on.”

 

“About how I know absolutely nothing about her,” he explained. “We barely knew each other- I didn’t tell her anything until it was too late, and I didn’t want to hear about her. I didn’t want to know who she was because I didn’t really care- and I didn’t even _know_ that I didn’t care. I thought I loved her, but how could I have loved her? I don’t think I even knew- her favourite colour- or- what her favourite smell was, let alone anything important about her.”

Milady sat in silence, wondering where this was going.

“And that wasn’t fair to her. To expect her to follow me out of Paris when she didn’t even know who I was- that was cruel. And- I don’t want-“

He trailed off, staring into his glass sullenly. Milady refilled it for him, sighing. She saw the awkward path this was taking.

After a long, painful silence, Athos spoke again.

“So tell me something true- about you, I mean. Please?”

“Anything I want?”

“Anything. As long as it’s true. I want to know you again.”

The idea that he ever had known her was surprisingly comforting. So she humoured him, thinking deeply for a moment to try and find something small, something she was happy to give him.

“My favourite colour is blue,” she said, finally. “I had never seen flowers as blue as the forget-me-nots in the fields of your estate. I’d barely ever _seen_ flowers growing. To see so many at once- such a ridiculous abundance of them- it was like finding treasure. You have no idea because you grew up surrounded by beautiful things.” She stopped, letting the silence hang for a moment, and then risked a look at his face. It was wretched with misery and memory, and she wondered if she had said something terrible for a moment until he nodded, blinking hard. “Thank you.”

“It’s your turn,” she said with a sudden whimsy. “Tell me something about you.” _If we’re doing this, let’s do it properly this time._

Athos thought, frowning deeply.

“When I was a boy,” he said suddenly and with perfect clarity, “I was told how I would be Comte, and how I would own all of the estate and all of the people on it. And I cried. I cried for hours, because I wanted to be a knight, even though I knew that was ridiculous. I didn’t want to be Comte, or have people working for me. I wanted to ride a big horse and have a sword.”

“A knight?” She tried to picture Athos as a child- stubborn willed, determined, those eyes that would get him out of any trouble- and found the image amusing.

Athos shrugged, smiling faintly.

Milady leaned back in her chair, sipping at her wine and eyeing Athos. They fell silent again, and Milady mused that if this was him attempting to court her, he could have done a lot worse. She had heard that he had taken Ninon to see a corpse for their first date.

 

“We should get back,” he sighed finally, regretfully. “We’ll be needed, I’m sure.”

He waited beside her horse and assisted her into the saddle without being prompted, looking up at her with that almost-smile she had loved so well before turning to his own mount.

_Definitely better than a corpse._

 

\---

 

GARRISON

Aramis and Constance rode back into the garrison as Porthos and Elodie sat staring at the table in silence. D’Artagnan had joined them, and they were all looking preoccupied and tense.

“Is everything alright?” Constance asked, letting Aramis order some cadets to move the supplies to the store rooms. “What’s wrong?”

“My husband isn’t dead,” Elodie said, shortly. “And he wanted me to leave with him and Marie-Cezette.”

“He was here?”

Porthos nodded, looking angry and frustrated.

“But you sent him away?”

“Yes.”

Constance looked between them. “How did he find you?”

“I have no idea,” Elodie sighed, rubbing her forehead wearily. “But he’s gone now.”

“Is he coming back?”

Porthos shrugged and got up, going to check on the child.

She was still sleeping. He tucked her in, kissing her head, and stared at her for a few minutes in silence.

 _She’s as much my child as Arnaud’s,_ he thought desperately. _Surely. I have loved her just as fiercely as he would._ He did love her; would kill or die for her in an instant. She was as much a part of him as any child he could father biologically would be.

 

Leaving her sleeping, he closed the door behind him and went back to the others, who had moved into d’Artagnan’s office to discuss fortifications to the garrison.

“We’ll need to work quickly,” d’Artagnan said, nodding to Porthos as he arrived. “If we barricade the gates using anything we can find- something we can move when we need to- and post guards there day and night, we should be able to defend ourselves for as long as we need.”

“And the city?” Aramis asked.

“We can assist the troops if needed,” d’Artagnan said. He spread out a map of the city on his desk. “Their barracks are spread throughout Paris- here, here- all over here.” He pointed out locations, marking them with his quill. “They should be able to defend the city without our help; so if we concentrate on prisons, the Louvre, the garrison-“ he marked out more locations, “- and with assisting the wounded, offering shelter here for the people you and Jean-“ he looked at Porthos  

“-managed to round up earlier. They can help us defend the garrison.”

Aramis nodded thoughtfully, rubbing his neck.

“We got a few,” Porthos said. “Managed to get ourselves twenty, perhaps more, men who will fight with us if needed.” He chuckled despite his mind being preoccupied. “It was mostly Jean shaming them into fighting. I just stood and looked vicious.”

“Well, however you got them, we can use them,” d’Artagnan said, clapping Porthos on the shoulder.

“If they can hold a sword or a gun, they can fight.”

Constance looked tentatively at d’Artagnan. “I could help them, too. And Elodie.”

D’Artagnan looked like he was about to object, but stopped himself, sighing.

Aramis said, “I saw Elodie take down at least six men with her bow, and Constance took out two guards, silently, in the dark, as good as any cadet.”

 

Constance gave him a grateful, surprised look. “What happened to ‘women can’t be Musketeers’?”

“But they can run garrisons,” Aramis smiled, giving her a gallant bow. “I must apologise for that, Constance.”

D’Artagnan grumbled, “Do I ever get a say in what happens in my own garrison?”

“No,” Constance said. Elodie gave him a silent look as well, and d’Artagnan shook his head, grinning. He glanced around at them all fondly. “I couldn’t ask for a better family,” he said with feeling. “All of you.”

The sound of hooves clattered through the yard.

“Athos must be back,” Aramis remarked. “He’s probably been drinking in some tavern on the way home.”

But after a short silence, the clattering started up again, accompanied by a loud, piercing wail. Elodie lunged at the door, Porthos at her side. “Marie-Cezette!”

They were just in time to catch a glimpse of a bay horse galloping out of the yard, the crying coming from the arms of the rider.

“He’s taken her!” Elodie said, leaning against the doorframe for support as her legs gave out in shock. “Arnaud’s taken Marie-Cezette!”

“Let’s go get her back,” Porthos snarled viciously, already running down the stairs towards the stables.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

Athos and Milady rode back into the garrison just after all hell had broken loose.

“What on earth is happening?” Athos asked, watching as d’Artagnan armed himself and climbed onto his horse, Constance holding the reins for him until he was seated. Aramis, several cadets and Brujon were mounted already, waiting for him. “Where are you going?”

“Marie-Cezette was kidnapped,” d’Artagnan said hurriedly. “Porthos and Elodie have gone after her, we’re going to help.”

“We’ll come with you,” Athos said immediately, turning his horse.

“Stay here.”

Athos looked confused.

“Start fortifying the garrison, Athos. We need it finished before Condé attacks the city. He’s already been released- who knows how long it will be before we’re under attack?”

Silently, Athos nodded grimly.

“Constance has the plans,” d’Artagnan said, and with a nod to Milady, he rode off with the cadets behind him.

 

“Well, that was unexpected,” Milady said, looking at Athos and then at Constance, who gave her a distrustful stare and then turned away, disappearing off to look over the plans.

She slipped out of the saddle gracefully, and was immediately spotted by Jean, who couldn’t help himself.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing extravagantly low and then kissing her hand. “You are an exquisite creature- may I have the honour of your acquaintance?”

Athos sighed, getting off his horse and walking it towards the stable. “She’s my wife, Jean,” he said without looking at them.

“Ah Madame, I am a broken man to find you married,” Jean said with dismay, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Are you sure I could not persuade you….?”

“She’s still my wife,” Athos interrupted, coming back and standing next to Milady. He folded his arms and waited tolerantly.

“Oh hush, Athos,” Milady said with a wicked smile. “The young man has such beautiful manners. If you were wondering,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper to Athos that Jean heard but did not understand, “ _This_ generally works much better than showing a lady a corpse.”

“You won’t let me forget that, will you.”

“Never. Now, do go on- what is your name, young man?”

“Jean Lavaud, Madame,” he said, bowing again. “If I can be of any service-“

Athos rolled his eyes. “Jean, we need as many cadets as you can find.”

Jean took the hint, sighing as he went off to help.

 

“He’s a charming boy,” Milady commented.

“He’s-“ Athos started, and broke off.

“He’s what?” Milady gave him a sidelong glance.

“He isn’t- he doesn’t have-“

Milady had already guessed what Athos was trying to say, but wanted him to be uncomfortable for a little longer. She’d known almost as soon as she saw Jean. She _had_ been among the people in the Court of Miracles before, and she liked to think that she was more observant by nature than most of this lot- she hoped so, anyway.

It just seemed to matter a little more to Athos than it did to her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Athos said finally, and Milady smiled to herself.

“I’ll take your horse. Get Constance. She’s in the office.”

 

Milady looked thoughtfully at the office door, and nodded.

 _This might be somewhat awkward._ Constance had never hidden her distrust of Milady; having her held hostage by Sarazin might not have helped that. And she had slept with d’Artagnan.

She hesitated outside the door before pushing it open. Constance was gathering up the plans, her brow furrowed. She turned as Milady came in, her gaze immediately darting to the knife on d’Artagnan’s desk and then back to Milady. Despite herself, she was impressed at Constance’s quick instincts, and amused, too.

“Athos said to find you,” Milady said as a greeting, looking unnervingly at Constance for a long moment.

“I’ll be right out.”

Milady didn’t move, debating whether to say anything. _Why should I? I owe her nothing._

Eventually, she made a disgusted noise in her throat, and rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you- you can stop staring at that knife.”

“I don’t trust you,” Constance said, her chin tilted defiantly.

“Do you expect me to care?”

Constance looked uncertain.

“Because, quite frankly, I don’t know you. I don’t have any desire to know you, nor do I expect us to be best friends. But it appears I’ve thrown my lot in with the Musketeers for the moment, and so it would be _delightful_ if we could manage to work together. I have no great wish to die defending this place.”

Constance gave her a shrewd look, seeming to assess her sincerity, and then she nodded with a smile that, although not friendly, was at least aiming for neutral. “I’ll work with you.”

Milady left the office without another word, Constance a few moments behind her.

 

Athos looked up from where he was assembling cadets in the yard, and in a rare unguarded moment, Milady saw him smile up at her, his eyes narrowed against the sun, before he seemed to catch himself and turned back to his task. Constance saw the exchange, saw the way Milady smiled at the back of his head in return, knowing he didn’t see her, and wondered if perhaps she was being too spiteful in her judgement.

 

\----

 

PARIS STREETS

Porthos and Elodie rode hard through the city, hard on the heels of Arnaud. They barely stopped, pausing briefly to ask which direction the bay horse and rider had gone in and then spurring their horses onwards. They were close; they had only been a few minutes behind Arnaud, and he surely couldn’t know Paris like Porthos did. So they rode until their horses were foaming and they were sweating, sending people flying out of their way without slowing.

They stopped for breath at the corner of a street that branched off into three, glancing down each one. Elodie was anxious, her face flushed and her breath ragged, and she turned to Porthos for guidance. “Where did they go?”

Porthos looked around him, grim-faced and sweating. “I don’t know. I don’t see him.” He took in a shaking breath, reaching out to take Elodie’s hand briefly. “We’ll find her, Elodie. I swear it.”

Elodie nodded, trying hard to stay as calm as possible. She succeeded in evening out her breathing, nodded once more, firmly, and leaned over to soldier who was leaning against a wall. “Have you seen a man and a child on a horse go past here?”

“About ten minutes ago, Madame,” the soldier said, straightening up. “That way.”

He pointed to the middle street, and Elodie thanked him, glancing at Porthos and digging her heels into her horse once again, stroking its neck and whispering apologies for the exertion. Porthos was right beside her, and as he looked behind him, he saw d’Artagnan and his men riding hard towards them. He raised a hand and gestured down the middle street, seeing Aramis raise his hand in acknowledgment.

 

\---

 

Arnaud jumped down from his saddle awkwardly, holding a struggling, very much put out Marie-Cezette, and slapped his horse on the rear, sending it galloping off into the crowds. He ducked behind the buildings, disappearing inside an empty house and taking the stairs two at a time. He closed the door behind him, barricading it with chairs and the table, and then sat Marie-Cezette on the bed, kneeling in front of her.

“Hey- hey, it’ll be alright. I’m your papa- can you say _papa_ , Marie-Cezette?”

Marie-Cezette would certainly _not_ be saying papa. She was tired, and hungry, and wanted her bed and her snack. It was snack time.

She frowned at him silently, sticking out her bottom lip.

Arnaud tried again. “We’re going to go home soon. You, and me, and your mama, too. Would you like that? We can be a real family.”

Marie-Cezette blinked at him. She didn’t like this man. He smelled funny, and he had a nasty, gratey voice. He didn’t sound nice.

Arnaud was getting frustrated. “Would you like something to eat?”

Briefly, Marie-Cezette perked up. She would definitely like something to eat. She held out her hands for food.

He opened his bag and pulled out some cold meat, some hard cheese and an apple. She eyed the apple with mounting interest, but was disappointed as he sliced it up, offering her a piece.

“Ice,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose and turning away from Arnaud in frustration.

“Yes, it’s sliced,” he said, confused. He tried offering her another slice, but she pushed it away.

“ _Ice.”_

Arnaud sighed and ate it himself. “You’re a strange child. I’d wonder you were mine if I didn’t know.”

Marie-Cezette ignored him, staring at her toes mournfully. He didn’t speak like he was talking to her at all.

“Your mother will be here soon enough, and I’ll make her come back with us like a proper wife. She can’t stay with that – that _Musketeer_ forever, living in the garrison like his whore.”

 

\---

 

“I saw a man get off his horse and go behind those buildings,” an old woman told Porthos, pointing. “He had a child with him.”

“Thank you, Madame,” he panted, helping Elodie down and waiting long enough for Aramis, d’Artagnan and the cadets to arrive.

“In there.”

“You sure?”

Porthos nodded, drawing his sword. He took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Aramis drew his pistol, and d’Artagnan drew his weapon as well, nodding that he was ready. Elodie went before them into the building, her heart in her mouth and a deep, primal fury surging through her. How _dare_ he do this to her? To her _child?_ She would kill him herself- with her bare hands.

She stepped aside at the top of the stairs. “Barricaded,” she said in frustration, slamming a fist against the door.

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan nodded, throwing their shoulders against the wood again and again. “Come on,” Porthos roared. The wood shuddered and groaned under their combined strength, but held.

Porthos kept trying, feeling his shoulders beginning to bruise. _I won’t give up. Not if I break every bone in my body._

“Again!” he roared. ”Aramis, you too-“

Aramis joined them, heaving his weight against the wood with the others. They battered at it in silence for a few minutes, the only noise their gasping breaths.

D’Artagnan gave another mighty shove at the door, Porthos stepping back to kick it. It splintered a little, and cheered, Porthos kicked it again. His leg ached almost instantly, the recoil painful, but he kept at it, swearing loudly, d’Artagnan and Aramis joining him in kicking at the heavy wood.

 

Finally, after several more minutes, it gave a mighty _crack_ and caved in entirely, unable to withstand their combined assault and the sheer force of Porthos’ anger. He shoved it open, scattering chairs and sending the table screeching across the floorboards, and pointed his sword at Arnaud with a savage, terrifying look in his eyes.

D’Artagnan stood firm beside him, Elodie on his other side, and between them they blocked the doorway effectively, all of them silent and foreboding. Aramis stood behind Elodie with his pistol aimed at Arnaud over her shoulder.

Arnaud glanced at Marie-Cezette, who had seen Elodie and Porthos and was smiling benignly, kicking her feet.

 

Arnaud had his pistol drawn and was backed against the window, clearly debating whether to jump.

“Don’t bother,” Porthos growled. “There are Musketeers out there as well. If you survive, we’ll drag you to jail with both legs broken, if we have to.”

Arnaud grimaced. “Elodie, you would choose this man over me?”

“Well, he hasn’t _kidnapped my daughter_ ,” she said in cold, seething anger. “You know what? I was _glad_ you were alive, Arnaud. I loved you, I really did. I mourned for you. I grieved for the loss of our daughter’s father. I hoped- if you had somehow made it out- that you would want me to be happy. That you would understand that I couldn’t just sit around waiting for a miracle.”

Arnaud stood silent in the face of her assault.

“And then you came back, and I was _glad_. How _dare you?”_ Tears fell down her cheeks, but they were angry tears. Marie-Cezette looked concerned.

“She’s my child,” Arnaud said, faltering. “I wanted us to be together again.”

“And you felt that _stealing_ her, galloping half way across Paris, hiding out in an abandoned building and threatening me with a gun was the way to do that? What, did you assume I’d come swooning into your arms?”

 

Arnaud dropped the pistol, staring in horror at his hand. “I didn’t-“

D’Artagnan lowered his sword, and Aramis his gun, but Porthos refused to lower his for a long, tense moment, his eyes fixed on Arnaud’s.

Marie-Cezette fidgeted on the bed and managed to slide off the end, landing on her bottom with a surprised _“ooh.”_

She reached out her arms to Porthos, her face crumpling. “Papa,” she said, hiccupping in the way Porthos knew would lead to tears if she wasn’t comforted. Without further hesitation, Porthos sheathed his sword and stooped to pick her up carefully, settling her into his arms and smiling as she pulled on his beard, blissfully unaware of the tension around her.

 _She called me papa,_ he thought, bursting with pride. _Me. A father._ He looked proudly to Aramis, who was smiling at him, and then back to Arnaud, who had slumped into a chair.

“I’m sorry, Arnaud,” Elodie said, more gently. “But you were dead, and I made a choice. I love him, and he has helped me to raise Marie-Cezette as if she were his own.”

“She is,” Arnaud sighed, watching her smack Porthos’ cheeks gently, Porthos pretending to try and eat her fingers when they came past his mouth. “She is his child. Even Marie-Cezette said so.” He gave Elodie a wry smile.

“To prison, then?” he asked, standing slowly and staring at his feet. “I deserve it.”

“No.”

Arnaud frowned, looking quickly at Elodie with a questioning glance.

“I’m not taking you to prison, Arnaud,” she repeated. “But I must have your word that you won’t try to do anything like this again.”

“I’ll leave Paris,” Arnaud nodded. “Perhaps I could join the military again- soldiering was a decent enough life, for a while.”

He hesitated. “I can send you money, if you like.”

“You’ll need it yourself,” Elodie said, shaking her head. She went to him, taking his hands. “You’re not a bad man, Arnaud. Don’t allow yourself to behave like one.”

He hung his head, shamed, and she kissed his cheek softly. “Take care of yourself.”

Arnaud nodded, and walked over to Porthos and Marie-Cezette. She stuck her tongue out at him, disgruntled at her nap still being interrupted, and he smiled.

“I’m sorry,” Arnaud said, to Porthos and Elodie. Porthos nodded shortly, offering Arnaud his hand to shake.

“If you end up in Paris again,” Porthos said, “you know where we are.”

Arnaud brightened, nodding and taking Porthos’ hand. “Thank you.” He left silently, his head held a little higher.

 

They all stood in the room for a few minutes in silence after Arnaud left the building, the adrenaline seeping out of them in waves and leaving them exhausted.

 

 

\---

 

GARRISON

Fortifications to the garrison had been coming along nicely; Milady and Athos were busy rolling empty barrels to the gates so that the cadets could rope them together into a barrier- easily dragged out of the way, but sturdy in a pinch. Jean was leading another group in hammering planks together, making massive reinforcements for the gates themselves that would be lifted up and nailed to the oak doors. Constance was directing the last group who were busy making barricades to place around the yard for shooters to hide behind should the garrison be breached.

Once they were done there, Milady and Athos began stashing weapons in secret spots around the garrison, ready for Musketeers to pick up at a moment’s notice should they be surprised.

“Do you think this is necessary?” Milady asked, irritably, passing several muskets to Athos.

“Yes,” he said shortly, hiding them and moving on to the next hiding place. “We can’t be taken like last time.”

He looked grim, his eyes distant, and Milady recalled that the garrison had been destroyed once before already. At the time, she hadn’t paid it much attention, but it had clearly been a real blow to Athos- and presumably, the others. She said nothing, sighing instead and handing him some swords for the next spot.

Finally, Athos assisted the cadets in hauling up the reinforcements for the gates, straining and sweating as they held them up for the others to attach. Milady watched with satisfaction from the table, swinging her legs elegantly and smiling to herself. He was definitely just as handsome as he had been, if not more so.

 

When he came back to her side, as he inevitably did, she raised her eyebrow and said, “First you try to get me drunk, and now you’re making me do manual labour. Really, Athos, you have clearly forgotten how to court a lady.”

“You’re no lady,” he said, good-naturedly, giving her a flash of teeth before he went off to help somewhere else. “Come on.”

She thought about ignoring him, about making him finish the job by himself, his friends be damned. In the end, she rolled her eyes, and followed him to the armoury where he was cleaning pistols.

“I know you know how to do this,” Athos grunted, throwing her a cloth. “So help me.”

“Ugh,” she said, sitting down. “I’m going to get grease all over my dress.”

“You could take it off,” he said without looking at her, and she smiled, a little thrill shooting through her. He would never have dared say that even a few months back.

“It’s fine,” she said. “You can buy me a new one.”

 

He almost laughed, huffing out a breath that was definitely amused, and she began cleaning with a smile on her lips.

 

\---

 

Porthos, Elodie, Aramis, d’Artagnan and the cadets came riding back through as evening set in, Marie-Cezette sleeping in Porthos’ arms. Athos went to see them, embracing his friends with visible relief. Constance ran to hug Elodie, and she explained everything that had happened quickly and breathlessly.

As Elodie finished speaking, Marie-Cezette woke up, grumpily, and looked around at everyone for a moment before pouting and turning to her mother. “Snack,“ she demanded, and Elodie passed her some grapes, which she ate loudly and with great enthusiasm. Porthos gave her to Elodie so that he could put the horses away while she put the child to bed, and then they all converged on the table, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan grimacing as they sat down. Porthos’ shoulder and his knee felt like they were on fire, and he knew he would be in agony in the morning.

 

Aramis groaned, taking a drink and leaning back against the table awkwardly. “Let’s hope that Condé holds off for a few days before he decides to attack Paris,” he said. “Or we’re going to look like old men.”

“I don’t think I can get back on a horse for the next week,” Porthos grunted, stretching. “Never mind a few days.” Aramis patted his shoulder sympathetically. D’Artagnan nodded, reaching for the wine bottle in silence.

 

Athos sat with Milady at his left, drinking steadily but with more restraint than Aramis had seen in a while. Their hands were touching on the table, neither of them acknowledging it or discussing it with each other. “We’ve finished the reinforcements,” Athos said at length, glancing to d’Artagnan. “More or less.”

“Good,” d’Artagnan nodded. “We should be ready this time.”

“It won’t happen again, d’Artagnan,” Porthos assured him, knowing that d’Artagnan was remembering the destruction of his home. “We won’t let it.”

“We’ll fight,” Constance agreed, touching d’Artagnan’s shoulder softly. “All of us.”

“Together,” Athos added.

 

They drank for a little longer, talking quietly, and then they began to break off. Porthos and Elodie went back to their rooms arm in arm, their heads close together as they whispered something to each other. D’Artagnan and Constance made their excuses too, leaving holding hands and with Aramis smiling knowingly after them.

“Do you miss her?” Athos asked abruptly. Aramis shrugged.

“Of course I do. I know I can’t-“ he looked at Milady, but Athos nodded to say it was alright. Milady gave him a startled glance from under her eyelashes. He trusted her with this? She determined to stay silent and not make him regret it.

“I know I can’t say anything, not openly, but- Athos, you know how I feel about her. I can’t breathe for thinking about her, hoping that she’s well, wondering if she thinks of me.” He sighed. “And who knows. When she returns, maybe we will just carry on as we were- stolen nights and barely seeing each other. I hate being Minister,” he admitted, flushing. “I can’t stand it. But I promised her-“

Athos filled his glass, and Aramis drained it in one long swallow.

“You should tell her,” Athos said.

“I should go and write to her,” Aramis said, tiredly, and patted Athos on the shoulder on the way past. “Goodnight.”

 

That left only Athos and Milady, staring into the candlelight on the table and watching the gathering dark turn the sky from blue to velvety, inky blackness. His skin prickled where it touched his wife, though he had been trying to ignore it all night.

“I don’t need to tell you-“ Athos said warningly.

“I won’t say anything.”

He grunted and pushed away his glass, half full. “It’s getting late.”

She didn’t say anything. Her eyes looked black in the light of the candles, her face suddenly seeming very close to his. The light flickered over her skin, casting it in a warm, golden glow. She looked tired, her hair starting to come out of its intricate braid, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “You’re beautiful,” he said, feeling very stupid for saying so and expecting a sarcastic remark in return.

But she merely blinked at him, giving him a strange look, and then leaned in to kiss him, gently but with the promise of more.

Athos took the hint, blowing out the candles as they left together.

 


	8. EPISODE EIGHT: "WITHIN THESE WALLS"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter WILL have a lot of historical inaccuracies; I assure you that it's a deliberate choice because of a) timing & in the interests of a villain b) the show already messing some of it up, and c)three of the main historical figures involved, on their wiki pages, have three different versions of events. THREE. None of which really match to ANOTHER website I use for historical notes. So I've done a patched-together version which includes elements from all three accounts, on purpose.
> 
> We're getting to the end now, two more episodes; I want to thank you all for sticking with me!  
> Some reassurances:
> 
> *Queen Anne will be in the next episode;  
> *Aramis won't be a sad potato forever;  
> *Marie-Cezette will be fine
> 
> Love to you all.

 

EPISODE EIGHT: WITHIN THESE WALLS

 

 

In the lull between Condé’s release and the seemingly inevitable attack on Paris, the garrison prepared.

Athos once again became the teacher he never intended to be; sparring with the cadets and improving their sword techniques, driving them hard again and again until he was satisfied and aching. He was drinking less, and sleeping more; a new development that he was almost enjoying.

The dream still haunted him every night, of course- the same tree, the same screaming- but each night, he felt his legs allow him to take another step closer, through the distorted, heavy quality of the dream; closer to his wife, to the rope. Almost, but never quite close enough to cut her down, to save her from what he had failed to do in reality.

But the waking was easier, now- more often than not, he awoke screaming and shuddering to find Milady there, _really_ there next to him. That was an improvement.

 

Aramis took over the shooting range, and the air was often thick with the smell of gunpowder as cadets and Musketeers alike tested and improved their aim. He kept in contact with the Queen, his heart heavy with missing her but needing to be assured that she was safe- and her son, too. It seemed to him that the waiting was worse than any fighting he could endure. He spent a lot of his spare time with Porthos, playing card games or drinking together in companionable silence while they waited for the attack to hit.

Porthos had hand to hand combat training with the cadets most days. He found most of them average at best, but was starting to really enjoy training with Jean. The boy wasn’t strong, well-trained, or particularly powerful with his punches, but he was fast and creative and used his head- literally, sometimes, as Porthos’ chin could often attest to.

D’Artagnan was more stressed than he recalled ever being; co-ordinating plans and strategies with the soldiers throughout Paris, making sure his garrison was safe and defended, training the men and somehow managing to do the paperwork that being a Captain seemed to gather- he had no idea how Treville had managed it for so long, without going utterly mad. Perhaps he had been, and had simply hidden it well. Constance helped with as much as she could, managing the storerooms, signing and sealing letters, taking the responsibility for much of the daily, mundane tasks of the garrison- without her, d’Artagnan would have slept even less than he managed to in the weeks following Condé’s release. He was grateful to her and to his friends, who asked little and did more than they should have had to.

 

This morning, Elodie was giving an impromptu lesson with her bow to some of the cadets and a few of those civilians that Porthos and Jean had managed to round up. D’Artagnan had ordered in several new longbows to add to their own armoury, and the air was pleasantly filled with the gentle thwack of arrows hitting straw targets and Elodie’s clear instructions.

“If you asked, she’d teach you,” Athos remarked from his seat at the table. He was watching Milady as she stared with interest at Elodie’s lesson, standing in the shadows underneath the balcony.

Milady blinked, glancing at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need her help.” _I don’t ask for help. And why would she help me anyway?_

He shrugged at her, giving her a brief smile. She rolled her eyes at him and continued watching the lesson.

Athos stood and stretched his arms with a sigh, preparing to go back to sparring. He paused on the way past her.

“Just ask.”

She watched him return to the cadets and set them off in pairs again, wondering idly if he even realised that asking for help was just something she couldn’t do with most people. Probably not; his self-absorbed, self-imposed misery had probably left him blind to other people’s emotions.

 _Ugh. Emotion._ She was frustrated with herself and with him, frustrated that she was sat here waiting for a fight to come knocking instead of getting out of Paris. Why should she ally herself with the Musketeers? She was almost certain none of them would do the same for her.

_Except Athos._

Would he? She wasn’t certain, even now. Perhaps she was being too hard on him. Perhaps he deserved it.

 

\---

 

“Milady.”

She turned to see d’Artagnan standing awkwardly behind her, his arms folded.

“Yes, Captain?” she said with an edge to her voice sharper than the knife in her boot.

“I have a job for you, if you want it.”

“I work for you now? I should inform the Queen.”

He sighed impatiently, shrugging. “Fine. I’ll ask Constance.”

“Wait.” _Like I’ll let her do something he asked me to **first.**_ That sounded interesting. “What is it?”

“We have an informant from Condé’s army,” d’Artagnan said without meeting her eyes. “I need someone who they won’t suspect as a Musketeer to meet him and bring us his information.  We need a date for this attack if we can.”

“Am I getting paid?”

He looked at her in irritation, his forehead creasing in that puppy-dog way she knew Constance fell for every time.

“Fine,” she groaned. “I’ll do it. For the good of Paris, of course, if not my purse.”

D’Artagnan shook his head with distaste. “I don’t know why Athos trusts you,” he said. “You’re like a snake.”

 

“Is there a problem?” Athos said, appearing at d’Artagnan’s side, his chest heaving from his sparring.

His eyes darted between d’Artagnan and Milady, making it clear that he had heard at least the last half of the conversation.

“Not at all,” Milady said, too sweetly. D’Artagnan ducked his head and handed over a letter to her.

“The address you’re meeting the informant at is on there,” he said shortly. “He’ll be waiting for you at noon.”

Milady nodded, slipped the letter into her bodice, and with a glance under her eyelashes to Athos, she left the garrison.

Athos gave his Captain a long, silent look, and went back to work.

 

\---

 

“Letters, Aramis.”

Aramis stopped his practice to take the letters from the cadet who was holding them out to him. The seal on the first one was Mazarin’s, and he was curious as to what the Cardinal had to say.

 

_A-_

_Have been negotiating with former supporters of Condé under Turenne. They agree to assist if Paris becomes undefendable._

_Condé likely to attack soon._

_M-_

Short and to the point, but Aramis was grateful for any help they could get. He showed d’Artagnan the letter, who nodded in silence before saying, “I hope we can trust them. Is Mazarin likely to betray the Crown?”

Aramis paused. “No. I think he is completely loyal, to the Queen at any rate. He can be trusted.”

“Good.” He sighed and cast his eye around the yard. “At least we’re in good shape.”

“The soldiers in the city are, too,” Porthos said, walking over to them.

“That’s a nice bruise you have,” Aramis smiled, reaching out to prod the purple bruise under Porthos’ eye and forgetting his second letter, which he tucked absently into his doublet.

“Leave it. Jean head-butted me.”

“When will you learn to _duck_ ,” Aramis teased, putting his arm around Porthos’ shoulder affectionately.

“He’s so short I should learn to jump, more like,” Porthos grumbled with a smile. “Anyway. I went to check on the soldiers last night, and they’re as prepared as they’re going to get.”

“That’s good to hear.” D’Artagnan rubbed his forehead wearily. “I feel like I haven’t slept for a week.”

“That’s because you haven’t,” Constance said archly as she passed with her arms full of cloth for bandages. D’Artagnan raised his hands in surrender, appealing for his friends to defend him, but they just laughed and slapped his back.

 

\---

 

OUTSKIRTS OF PARIS

Milady approached with one hand on her pistol, hidden under her cloak. It wasn’t that she expected an ambush, but she _always_ expected trouble. But there was the informant, as promised, and he looked alone. She relaxed minutely and approached with her head high.

“Are you from the Musketeers?” the man asked nervously as she got within a few paces of him. He was a rat-faced, thoroughly disgusting individual, and she fought to keep her lip from curling.

“I am.” _My, the depths to which I have sunk. From the Musketeers, indeed._

The man nodded, smiling unpleasantly, and reached into his doublet for the letter. He handed it to her, Milady taking hold of it by the corner, delicately as though not wanting to touch his grime, and hid it in her dress quickly.

“Hands up,” the man said suddenly, producing a pistol and aiming it at her head. Milady reached for her own gun but the man sneered, pushing the muzzle of his pistol against her forehead and leaning in to take hers from her belt. “Nice try, sweetheart,” he said, and Milady felt a flare of anger curl through her.

“I’m not your sweetheart,” she hissed through her teeth, drawing her knife from the back of her dress and stabbing him before he could react. He dropped to the floor with a gasp, and Milady leaned down to take her gun back.

“Not so fast,” she heard, and turned to see a group of six men leering at her, all pointing pistols at her back. She snarled and dropped her pistol again, turning to face them properly.

“Six guns?” she asked, voice dripping with venom. “Am I really that dangerous?”

“Ask him,” one of the men said, pointing at the dead informant. Milady smiled sweetly at him.

“He was rude.”

The man who had spoken- a large, dark haired man with blue eyes who would have been handsome if his expression was not permanently vicious and surly- gestured to one of his friends, and they moved forward to bind her wrists.

“You’re coming with us.”

A brief, panicked moment of fear overcame her; she looked around for an escape and saw none. No one but d’Artagnan knew where she was, and he wasn’t likely to bother finding her. No one would miss her for hours- by that time, she might have been killed, or worse.

Seeing no other option, she submitted to being half-pushed, half marched back to Condé’s camp.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

Hours later, the first attack came, seemingly from nowhere. D’Artagnan heard the boom of cannons and the first shouts of battle from the yard, lifting his head to glance at Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. They nodded back. Elodie got her archers ready- the best of the cadets and the people Porthos had found. They spread themselves around the garrison, bows ready to be trained on the gates should they be needed.

“Porthos- you, Jean, and Brujon- can you go and see how far away his men are? Send word to any soldiers who haven’t heard.”

They nodded, and mounted their horses, Porthos lingering for a kiss with Elodie before he left.

“Love you,” he said quietly.

“Love you too, you great fool,” Elodie smiled, hugging him tightly. “Be careful.”

 

D’Artagnan sent out as many Musketeers and cadets as he could to defend the city alongside the troops, leaving the bare minimum he could get away with to defend their home- which amounted to him, Athos, Aramis, Constance, Elodie, and the civilians. Aramis lined up pistols and his musket for his vantage point, stockpiling shot and powder next to them. Constance handed out quivers of arrows, keeping herself one along with her new bow- just in case; she wasn’t the most natural of archers, but Elodie had been helping.

“I should be out fighting,” Athos said, looking tense and miserable. He had a bottle in his hand but wasn’t drinking, seemingly just wanting the familiarity. “Not waiting here.”

“It’ll come to us soon enough,” d’Artagnan said grimly, and he was right.

 

Not more than half an hour after the cannons first began, the shouts and the patter of gunfire was too close to ignore. Porthos came galloping back through the gates with Jean at his heels. He was bleeding from a nick on his ear, and looked harried.

“Close,” he gasped. “There are a lot of men. The soldiers are holding them off as best they can, but they’re spreading through the city. I saw some of our men too.”

“Where’s Brujon?”

“He stayed to help. Jean wanted to as well, but I didn’t know if you’d want him here.”

D’Artagnan looked at Jean, who was itching for a fight, his eyes bright and a wide, almost scary smile on his face. Then he glanced at Porthos, who was shaking his head minutely, wanting to keep Jean as safe as possible.

“You’ll be more use here,” he decided, and noticing Jean’s disappointed face, added, “Don’t worry- you’ll see plenty of action, Cadet.”

“Yes, Captain!” Jean said, jumping lightly from his horse and leading it to the stables. He was getting better at riding, though his posture was terrible.

 

Porthos swiped at his bleeding ear in irritation. “Some idiot tried to shoot me from ten paces and missed all but my ear.”

“Well, they’re big enough,” Aramis called from his position, and Porthos rolled his eyes.

They paused, hearing the gunfire getting uncomfortably close.

“Let’s go then,” d’Artagnan said with a glance around. “Athos, Aramis, Porthos- we’ll go and help the soldiers. The rest of you stay here, close the gates and don’t open them for anyone except us. We’ll fall back and defend the garrison when we have to.”

 

They armed themselves in silence and headed out of the garrison, d’Artagnan checking behind to make sure the gates were shut.

 

\--

 

PARIS

The streets were in chaos- soldiers, Musketeers and Condé’s men fighting desperately, several already wounded or dead, scattered around the streets. Porthos recognised Condé himself at one point, screaming orders and firmly in the fight, looking like a man possessed as he hacked without finesse at the crowds of men attacking him. His severe face was flecked with blood, his eyes narrowed and keen. Porthos shuddered, recalling seeing him fight before- on their side.

 

“Stay together,” d’Artagnan shouted above the noise. “Whatever happens, we get back to the garrison, and we defend it.” The others nodded and charged into the fray.

Porthos was so terrifying that one man stumbled back before their swords had even clashed, Porthos roaring with his teeth bared and dispatching him quickly before ramming into the back of another man, knocking him down.

Aramis went for the more elegant approach, finding himself against two men and so thoroughly confusing them both by his quick footwork that one stabbed the other accidentally, leaving Aramis to kill the remaining man and move on. He kept the others in his sight at all times, knowing the importance of teamwork, and they formed a line in the fighting that stood fast against waves of enemies trying to break it.

Athos wasn’t in the mood for playing; his thrusts were fast and deadly, his fights short and without preamble. Man after man fell to his blade, and he kept wading through them with the others, determined to stand or die trying.

 

D’Artagnan was tired, and his usual flourish wasn’t as effective in these conditions- so he emulated Athos as best as he could, using his agility to his advantage against the bigger opponents and getting out of each skirmish as fast as possible. They worked steadily, seeing men fall around them and hearing the screams of the wounded all around. The air became thick with the smell of smoke and blood quickly, a heavy, oppressive stench that made Athos pull his scarf up around his mouth and nose to try and block out some of it. And still it went on. Guns flashed around them, the sky soon grey and hard to see through, the acrid smell of gunpowder mixing with the blood. Horses screamed, cannons boomed in the distance, and dimly, the Musketeers knew that this fight would be close- and it wouldn’t be the last. It seemed Condé’s men had no mercy- they were _brutal_ , cutting down civilians and soldiers alike without a thought, trampling people underfoot and slaughtering horses out from underneath the troops. They set fires to several houses that d’Artagnan could see; he knew the chances of their being people in them were high, and sent some cadets to rescue anyone they could.

 _Animals,_ Athos thought with disgust. They had no humanity. He watched a particularly large man twist a woman’s neck almost off her shoulders, her screams cut off suddenly as she went slack in his grip. _Savages._ Athos threw himself at the man and slit his throat without delay, snarling and roaring out a guttural, wordless scream as he fought onwards again, his friends at his sides. He hoped that Milady was-

 _Where is Milady?_ He hadn’t seen her return from wherever d’Artagnan had sent her.

 

He had no time to ask, because a sudden wave of Condé’s soldiers pushed through a street that had been barricaded, shooting. Athos ducked, shouting a warning, and grimaced as several of their allied soldiers fell under the gunfire. In the next instant, they were on their feet again and lunging for the enemy, fighting hard and recklessly as the odds tipped in their favour. Condé was still in the midst of his men, and Athos fought hard, trying to push through the enemy to reach him. Their eyes met for a second, and then Condé was gone, lost in the crowd. Athos scowled and turned back to the fight at hand.

Slowly, inexorably, they were pushed back over the next few hours, towards the garrison. D’Artagnan knew that this would only be the first of several attacks, and he was not about to lose his home on the first day; so he ordered the others to fall back with him to the garrison gates, fighting off the soldiers until they could get inside.

 

In the brief lull as they began to shut themselves in for the fight to come, Athos grabbed d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Where is Milady?” His eyes were wild, his teeth still bared, and d’Artagnan couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I sent her on a job.”

“To _where, d’Artagnan.”_ His grip on d’Artagnan’s shoulder tightened a little.

“To meet a spy from Condé’s army at the edge of the city. He had information.”

Athos went suddenly pale, his eyes hard and cold. “Bring me my horse,” he told a cadet in a terrifyingly calm voice.

“You can’t go- Athos, we need you here. I’ll make it an order if I have to-“

“Court martial me if you wish.” He swung up into his saddle and galloped out of the half-closed gates without another word, leaving them to fight the armies of Condé without him.

 

\--

 

CONDE’S CAMP

Condé had barely even glanced at Milady when they dragged her past him, recognising her vaguely but unable to recall where. He didn’t much care; one whore was very like another, and he was sure his men would take their fill of her before finishing her off. Instead, he looked at carefully drawn maps and plans of Paris, many of them commissioned by him when he was staying at the Louvre and above suspicion. He planned his entrance, and where to place his cannons, with intricate attention to detail, disliking for events to turn unexpectedly. He was a soldier, not a politician; once he had control, he would hire people for that business, but for now he was having to juggle both, unsuccessfully. Fighting was his area of expertise. He could cut a man down without breaking a sweat, could lead armies into battles that they had no chance in and come out on top. He would do the same here. Paris would bend and shatter under his might.

 

Milady had been thrown unceremoniously into a cell, and after they had taunted her, threatened her with rape, beatings and many other inventive ways to take their fun, was left there while the army went out to attack the city. Her fears of what they would do to her could be delayed for a few hours, at least; they would likely not be back before sundown, and they would hopefully be thinned out.

 

She could hear several men still around the camp, laughing and presumably on guard duty.

Looking around her, she saw very little other than other cells- cages, really, all in a thoughtfully neat line in the centre of camp. They were empty; she was clearly taking the dubious honour of being their first captive, though to what end she really didn’t know.

_First- escape. No one is likely to look for you. Only d’Artagnan knows where he sent me and I can hear the fighting from here, so they’ll be distracted._

_Second- get out of the camp and steal a horse on the way._

_Third- get back to the garrison and stab d’Artagnan._

_Okay, perhaps not **stab**_ **.**

She reached into her boot and pulled out the dagger she always secreted there. Stupid men; hadn’t even thought to check her for more weapons. Working carefully and as quickly as possible, she set about sawing at the ropes on her wrists, keeping an eye out for a guard on patrol.

 

They fell apart after only a few minutes solid work, and with satisfaction, she dropped the knife back into her boot, pulling a hairpin out of her hair and setting to work on the lock.

 _I knew being an assassin would come in handy some day,_ she thought with wry amusement. _Just perhaps not in the way I had imagined._

She fought to stay calm, knowing that it would do her no good to panic and get herself noticed.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

“Did he just _leave?”_ Porthos yelled, helping to shove the gates closed.

D’Artagnan nodded, looking behind him to Constance. He felt guilty; he had chosen Milady because he could not bear to choose Constance, in case something like this had happened to her. But he had underestimated Athos’ reaction. “Get those gates shut,” he ordered. “Barricade them as best you can- it won’t hold long against cannon, but we’ll be prepared.”

He looked around him at the cadets and civilians. “This won’t be the only attack we’ll see,” he said, knowing he was no good at inspirational speeches and wishing desperately for Treville’s help. He willed himself calm, looked to Aramis and Porthos, who nodded reassuringly, and continued.

“There will be more- and we’ll probably be outnumbered every time. But we’re Musketeers. All of us, right now- even you volunteers. Everyone in this garrison is family right at this moment, and we will fight for our home, for our friends, and for this family. We will not lose it again.”

He stopped, taking a breath, and glanced to Constance, who smiled at him and nodded. _Well, that will have to do._

 

A few of the civilians flinched as the deep, rhythmic booming of a battering ram beating against the gates began, shaking the wood with each blow. Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan spread out to get people ready to defend the garrison, ordering them to their defensive spots and checking the weapon stashes once more. Constance had pistols and her bow and was standing with Elodie and her archers on upper balconies around the edge of the yard, looking determined and wearing a cadet uniform that was a little too big for her but far more practical than a dress. Elodie wore the same, tied with belts and made tighter to fit her more comfortably. They would have a great advantage if the gates were breached; surrounded on all sides, many of the soldiers would fall before they even raised their weapons.

Aramis held a position to the right of the gates, Porthos the left, and d’Artagnan’s group had barricades built through the centre, staggered at various points. All of the doors had been nailed shut to avoid being flanked. Marie-Cezette, much to her dismay, was being looked after by Dr Blanchard, safe in the depths of the garrison’s many rooms. He had offered to assist any wounded in return for safety, and Elodie had persuaded him to take care of the child- and not to slice her apples, of course.

 

They heard soldiers outside roaring for cannons to be brought to the gates, and beyond that, they could hear the screams and cries of terrified citizens. D’Artagnan wished he could help- his Musketeers were out there doing their best, and that was all he could hope for until the garrison was safe again and they could get back into the fray.

“Ready yourselves!” he shouted, and wondered if he would see Athos again before the fight was done.

 

\---

 

PARIS

Athos rode through the streets as fast as his horse could manage, crouched low against the animal’s neck. He paid little attention to the battle going on around him, just urging his horse on and letting it pick its own route through the fighting. His own mind was racing, careening between fury and terror and guilt.

 _He did this deliberately,_ he thought, irrationally. _If they’ve hurt her, I will kill each and every single one of them. If they’ve even touched her-_

He gritted his teeth and spurred his horse on even faster.

He had no idea what had happened to her, not really- but she had been gone far too long for a simple conversation, and so he feared the worst.

 _What if they’ve already killed her?_ He scowled, shaking his head. He couldn’t think like that. She was manipulative and dangerous- both qualities he had despised in her at some point but that he desperately needed her to have now.

His whole body felt leaden, his hands stiff on the reins, his chest aching painfully; and he was trying to pretend to himself that he wasn’t panicking, and failing.

_I can’t lose her again._

That one thought kept returning, over and over endlessly. He couldn’t. If she was lost to him again, he would be just as surely to blame as he had been the first time.

 _I should kill d’Artagnan._ He knew, somewhere deep down that he didn’t mean it; knew that he had sent Milady because she was better, stronger- and yes, because he wanted to keep the woman he loved safe. Athos could hardly blame him for it, but it didn’t stop his rage that she had been sent into danger so close to the battle.

 

He rode to the only place he could think of- Condé’s camp- knowing that if she had been ambushed, she would have been taken there.

_If they didn’t just kill her._

 

The camp looked almost empty. Athos slid out of the saddle quietly, leaving his horse tied out of sight, and dropped into a crouch, drawing his sword. He skirted the edges of the tents, his blood roaring in his ears and his heart thudding against his ribs.

_Please._

It was easy enough to sneak past the few guards he saw, all of them distracted – playing card games, eating, or cleaning their weapons. He paused in the shadows of a tent, listening to the conversation of a group of soldiers who were laughing around a fire.

“That bitch killed the spy herself,” one of them smirked.

“Saved us a job, anyway.”

“She won’t be so smug once we’ve all had a go on her,” another sneered, and the others cheered in approval.

 

Athos’ blood ran cold, and he tightened his grip on his sword, baring his teeth.

Every inch of him wanted to slaughter them all, but he held himself in check- barely, his whole body trembling with the effort. There were at least ten men that he could see; it would be suicide. The thought of any of them touching her made him sick to his stomach, but if he got himself killed, he would never be able to stop them.

He continued on through the camp, rounding a few more corners as quietly as possible, memorising his route as best he could.

One more turn, and he stopped, finding a knife suddenly pressed tightly to his throat. He looked up quickly, reaching for his gun, and stared into Milady’s confused face, her forehead creased and her eyes wide and questioning. She looked dusty and tired, but otherwise unharmed, and the instant relief that surged through him made his legs feel suddenly weak.

She pulled the knife back slowly after a moment of shocked silence.

_He came for me. He actually came to find me, in the middle of a battle._

A ridiculous rush of gratitude swept over her and she felt suddenly as though she might cry. She hadn’t entertained the thought that someone- anyone- would bother to help her, not even Athos. Not really.

He didn’t move, his eyes fixed intently on hers as though she had all of his answers, his breathing rough and his whole body looking as though it was trembling, and she realised that she was still staring at him and holding back her tears. With a monumental effort, she pulled in a shuddering breath, composing herself.

“You took your time,” she said, hoping he could hear _thank you._

He nodded, blinking and breaking eye contact, and gave her a hesitant smile and a sidelong glance.

“You look as though you were doing perfectly well.”

“You think I have time to sit around waiting for you?” she said with a smile back. “I presume you brought me a horse?”

Athos grunted, shrugging. “I brought my horse. I left in a hurry,” he added.

“Too much of a hurry to ask for another horse?”

“I may have deserted,” he said delicately, handing her his pistol and turning back the way he came. “It’s entirely possible that d’Artagnan won’t let me back into the garrison.”

_He deserted the Musketeers, in the middle of a siege on Paris, to come and get me?_

She gave him a wondering look, touching his shoulder briefly, and then followed his lead through the camp again with her head spinning.

 

Some of Athos’ anger had subsided, now that he knew Milady was alive; but not all of it, by any means.

Once again, he hesitated beside the group of guards by the fire.

“Leave them,” Milady hissed.

“But they-“

“I know,” she said, glancing at them. “Trust me, they made it very clear what they wanted to do to me.” She sounded bitter, but she still shook her head. “It’s not like I’m not used to it. They aren’t worth it.”

Athos stared at her, wondering if he had gone mad. Her, telling _him_ not to kill someone? He nodded silently, and they slipped past the guards, Athos glancing behind them to make sure they weren’t being followed.

 

He led her to where his horse was tied, and pulled himself into the saddle, turning to offer her a hand up behind him.

“This is a little ridiculous,” she muttered, looping her arms around his waist and settling herself against him. Athos closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the feeling of her, warm against his back, feeling as though if he concentrated hard enough he could feel her heartbeat. She leaned her head into his shoulder, pretending she wasn’t breathing him in. He smelled like leather and gunpowder and sweat- warm and familiar and comforting.

Athos spurred his horse and they set off back to the garrison in silence.

 

\----

 

GARRISON

The gates had been breached; with a final, heaving creak, the wood splintered inwards, shards of oak spraying across the yard. There was a moment of stillness, and then the battering ram started again in place of the cannon, and d’Artagnan only had time to shout “Get ready!” before soldiers began climbing through the wreckage and spilling into the garrison itself. They were taken down efficiently; arrows thudding into unprotected necks, arms and shoulders like raindrops, Elodie shouting instructions clearly above the general noise and confusion. Constance did her best alongside the others, the bow heavy and hard on her shoulder muscles after a while, and managed to score several good hits in the first few minutes. Porthos and Aramis’ men shot the ones that made it through the hail of arrows, handing guns back to cadets to reload in an endless chain. Jean made good use of his shots, aiming low and blowing out kneecaps with a brutal efficiency.

 

But they kept coming, the doors now open wide, and slowly, they advanced further into the yard.

D’Artagnan’s group stood, drawing swords and taking the next wave on as the archers concentrated their arrows on the gates themselves, halting as many men as they could before they got too far. Porthos and Aramis left their posts to fight alongside d’Artagnan, Jean joining them with a grin of satisfaction and a sword in each hand.

The air was thick with the smell of blood and the screams of the wounded, and the Musketeers fought grimly and without flourish, wanting the bloodbath to be over. Condé’s men were merciless, savage and arrogant. Gunshots ricocheted around the yard, the echoes deafening and making Porthos’ teeth ache, but they fought on.

They barely noticed when Athos and Milady came galloping through the remains of the gates, dismounting and putting the horse away before joining the fight. Milady climbed to the balcony and began shooting her pistol without comment, firing and reloading in a steady rhythm. Constance and Elodie glanced at her, and after a moment’s hesitation, they nodded to her. She returned the gesture tentatively, looking at them suspiciously, but then fell back to her task.

 

Athos ran to his friends and began hacking at any enemy he could get at, killing efficiently and silently, taking out his anger on the soldiers who had taken his wife from him.

Eventually, Condé’s men fell back, the night drawing in and visibility becoming an issue. In their wake, they left bodies piled three or four high in some places.

 

Athos dropped his sword and lunged for d’Artagnan as soon as the smoke had cleared, punching him without preamble before pushing him back against the wall and grabbing him by his doublet.

“How could you?” Athos hissed, his voice rising to a hoarse shout as he continued, inches from d’Artagnan’s face. “You did it deliberately, didn’t you? You wanted her dead, you didn’t want to risk sending Constance because you’d actually _care_ if she got hurt, but not-“ he snarled, staring d’Artagnan down viciously. “Not her. You would have slept perfectly well tonight if she had died out there. You didn’t even _tell_ me where you’d sent her. If I hadn’t noticed-“ He shook d’Artagnan, pushing him harder against the wall. “If she had died,” he continued in a cold, calm voice, “It would have been on your hands as surely as if you had shot her yourself.”

“But I love Constance,” d’Artagnan said quietly, knowing that Athos was at least partially right. “You of all people should know why-“

“And you think I _don’t_ love –“ Athos stopped himself in horror before that thought could slip from his traitorous lips, letting go of d’Artagnan and stepping back. His eyes blazed, and d’Artagnan wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pulled his pistol and shot him right there, but Athos dropped his hands to his sides, sighing. “You of all people should know.”

 

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said immediately. He had been feeling guilty about it most of the afternoon. He should have at least talked it over with Athos first; he was right, he had asked Milady rather than Constance out of fears for her safety. “I should have thought.”

Athos’ anger was all but gone, leaving him bone-weary with exhaustion, and he nodded, slapping d’Artagnan on his shoulder.

“Are we good?”

“Are you court martialling me for desertion?”

“Of course not.”

“Then we’re good.” D’Artagnan embraced him as though they had barely quarrelled, and Athos kissed his forehead. Porthos and Aramis came over, dirty and dishevelled, and Athos looked at them warily until they nodded at him.

“I won’t apologise for leaving,” Athos said awkwardly. “I had to.”

“We know,” Aramis smiled, gripping his shoulder. Porthos grunted in agreement.

 

“We should prepare for the next attack,” d’Artagnan said with a sigh, rolling his shoulders. Turning to the cadets, he began to give instructions to move the bodies and start repairing the defences. Elodie went to fetch the doctor and see to Marie Cezette after kissing Porthos, and Constance joined d’Artagnan in helping the wounded.

Milady stal4ked over to Athos, giving him an inquisitive glance, and Athos felt himself flush under her scrutiny. _She heard. Oh, god._

_He nearly said he loved me._

“Thank you,” she said instead of embarrassing him further on the subject. “For coming for me.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Her silence, the way her eyes darted down to the ground, and her hand hovering at her throat told him more than she could have said with words, and he was awash with guilt and misery all over again.

_It’s time, Athos. Stop running. Stop lying to yourself. You damn near left your friends to die today for her, so act like she was worth it._

 

“I-“ he began, finding himself at a loss for the right words. “I was wrong, Anne.”

She said nothing, allowing him to continue, curious as to what he was wrong about this time.

“I should never have let Catherine rush me. I should never have had you hanged. It was wrong, and it was cruel- more cruel than I had believed I could be. I should have listened. I’m –“ he took in a breath, turned his eyes to the sky for some courage, and finished in a long breath. “I’m sorry. Could you ever forgive me?”

 

Milady froze, her eyes wide and her breath stilled for a moment. It felt as though her heart stopped too; and then with a rush the world came back into focus and she was staring at Athos as though she had never seen him before.

It wasn’t so much the apology as the look on his face- he clearly meant every word, and it caused him pain to say it, and that convinced her of his honesty more than the words ever would have. She let out a breath, and all that came out with it was “ _oh.”_

“Oh?” He looked anxious, tense and with his hands clenched at his sides as though on the verge of fleeing from her.

 

A thousand things ran through her head that she could say; most of them terrible, cruel, barbed things that she would have said without pause even just a year ago. She wanted to believe that she wasn’t that person anymore. She could never be the girl she pretended to be for Athos, but she was sick of being the paid murderer she had become. The fact that the job had become distasteful was only the beginning.

So she thought, and she stared, and Athos became more and more embarrassed and scared the longer she was silent.

Finally, she nodded, blinking rapidly to avoid the treacherous tears spilling, and didn’t say anything at all. She didn’t trust herself with the words.

 

Athos took a step towards her, suddenly seeming awkward- which was somewhat amusing considering how much time they had been spending in bed together, Milady thought. He lifted his hands to her face, cupping it gently. She could feel his fingers trembling minutely as he leaned in and kissed her, so softly that it was little more than a brush of his lips against hers.

 

But that kiss- it was like fire, imprinting itself onto her memory instantly and forever. He had kissed her exactly like that when they had first met; chastely, carefully, as though afraid she would be scared, would shatter into tiny pieces if he was rough with her. He had not kissed her in that way since he had found out who - _what_ \- she was. And if he was doing it again- and her mind was running circles even as she kissed him back- and he _knew_ everything about her now, then he loved her despite it, and this was a deliberate act to let her know that without words.

 

When he stepped back, there were tears in his eyes that he blinked away almost angrily. Milady opened her mouth, hesitating, and then made a soft noise of disgust and said, “I used you because I needed to. I needed a better life, and I needed a way out. I won’t apologise for that. I did what I had to do.”

She sighed and continued almost reluctantly. “I didn’t mean to _love_ you. And I’m sorry… that the lies I told meant that you didn’t believe that I did.” It took a great effort to get the words out, and they hung in the air between them like a terrible confession while he worked them out, his eyes narrowing in confusion for a moment.

This was more than they had said to each other in years. Athos was usually so silent and reticent with his words, and she stubborn and unwilling to make concessions, that it was almost exhausting trying to actually _speak._

But she felt lighter for it, and a vague, long-buried hope began to blossom in her heart. She allowed it to stay, tired of cutting it down again and again.

 

“I’m sure this is all very romantic,” Aramis called from where he was hauling bodies with Porthos, “but would you mind helping before you run off together?”

Athos laughed- actually _laughed-_ a short, rusty sound that came with a quick, self-conscious smile, seeming to surprise himself as much as it did Milady. He glanced up at her, and she returned the smile with a strange delight. She hadn’t heard him laugh since they were married and happy, and in truth she had forgotten how endearing it was.

“We’re coming,” Athos called back to Aramis, shrugging at her and turning towards the others. Milady stood silently for a moment and then went to find Constance.

 

\----

 

CONDE’S CAMP

Condé surveyed his men with thinly veiled disgust. “Pathetic,” he said, calmly but with enough power to carry across the camp where his soldiers were assembled. “I told you to crush them; I told you to destroy them and grind them into the dirt where they belong. And this is what I get? Look at you.”

His men shuffled , muttering amongst themselves. They looked exhausted and angry, many of them wounded and filthy.

“Tomorrow, you will fight harder. You will break them. No mercy, no weakness. Kill every man, woman and child in that city if you have to. I don’t care. But _break_ them. We must take control. We _will_ have Paris.”

There was a general murmur of unease among some of the regiments.

He stopped and dismissed them with a curt wave of his hand, turning back to his plans with an irritated sigh. He knew the Queen was in hiding somewhere. He hadn’t been able to root out where, and this was frustrating. He knew, also, that Mazarin was hiding out in Italy- and he suspected some kind of plan against him, though what Mazarin could do from such a distance, he could only guess.

It didn’t matter- once he had Paris, the rest would fall into place. The nobles he had gathered, the men that Parlement had supplied- these were enough, even if most of them could hardly swing a sword, in his opinion. The Musketeers seemed the better men in the field, but sheer numbers would prevail.

 

He didn’t see several units of men- mostly from the nobles he had recruited- sneaking out of the edges of the camp later that night; disillusioned and appalled at Condé’s lack of regard for life and his brutal methods, they made their way to the soldiers posted through they city in small groups, asking to join the fight again on Paris’ side. Most were accepted readily, switching out their uniforms and taking positions with men they had fought alongside before, in other times.

 

A few other groups simply went home, unwilling to carry on under the circumstances. And a few- not many, but enough to intrigue d’Artagnan- found their way to the garrison, offering help to clean up and fight with them. They were also accepted, and quickly kitted out as cadets so that they would be recognisable from the enemy.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

“Is there something I can do?” Milady asked after standing behind Constance awkwardly for five minutes. Constance turned to her, her face streaked with dirt and her hair coming loose, and after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Can you fetch hot water and more cloths?”

Milady did as she was asked, handing over the bowl to Constance and hovering again for a few moments. Constance was helping the doctor and Elodie to patch up the wounded; the smell of blood and vomit permeated the air, and Milady wrinkled her nose.

“Pass me that,” Constance asked, pointing to a pile of bandages, and Milady handed her some. It occurred to her that she wasn’t particularly good at this- she had no idea how to patch a wound effectively, or how to be of use- so she turned to go, to find something else to do. But Constance wiped her hands on a cloth, finishing up with the man she had been attending, and faced her before she could escape.

“I wanted to say,” she said carefully, “that I’m – sorry- for what happened to you. It should have been me who went to meet that informant.”

“It should,” Milady agreed, somewhat overwhelmed by how many apologies she was getting today. She recovered in time to soften it. “But- thank you.” Constance nodded, still looking wary but allowing her a small smile.

“I think they need people to reload and clean the weapons,” Constance suggested. “If that’s more your area.”

“Oh, thank God,” Milady said with relief, dropping the bandages she was holding and turning to go. She paused on the threshold, Constance laughing.

“Elodie?”

Elodie looked up at her, blood smudged over her nose.

“Would you teach me how to use a bow?”

She grimaced.

“Please.” _Don’t laugh at me, don’t make me ask again-_

Elodie shrugged and turned back to her patient. “Of course. Let me finish up here and I’ll find you.”

Milady escaped before she could regret asking, feeling triumphant and elated as though she had won another battle.

 

\---

 

It was hours later that Aramis finally remembered the second letter, the one he had stuffed into his doublet in haste. He paused from the backbreaking work of rebuilding the defences, perching on the edge of the table and pulling it out. He broke the seal, and immediately realised what it was that had been happening for the last few months.

 

_A-_

_I have been in discussion with M- for many months now, and feel it is time to share what it is we have been so secretive about._

_We want you to return to your commission as a Musketeer, full time, and for M- to become first Minister in your place._

_You are unhappy, A-, and as much as I love you and delight in your company, you are not meant to be tied to a desk while your friends are out fighting. You miss them, and you miss your life- and I cannot allow you to kill yourself in my service in a job you only took to please me._

_I will be returning to Paris within the next few weeks, and so we will talk properly- I have several things to discuss with you._

_I hope you know by now that there is nothing untoward in my relationship with M-, and I remain always and forever, yours_

_A-_

Aramis re-read the letter several times, his emotions swinging between relief, concern and a brief flash of jealousy that he buried by reading the last line again. He hadn’t suspected that this was what all the secrecy was about. He had jumped right to the worst conclusion, and he was ashamed of himself for it.

 _Porthos will be pleased to see me in my uniform again,_ he thought with a brief smile, recalling how irritated Porthos was that he refused to wear his pauldron.

 _But I won’t be able to keep an eye on my son._ He corrected himself, but not quickly enough. _Her son._

He was finding it increasingly difficult to remember that he could not be the child’s father- the _King’s_ father. Anne had made it clear enough at the beginning, and Aramis feared he was losing sight of that.

Perhaps a little distance was a good idea. He could still protect the King, as a Musketeer; it was hurting his heart to be so close and still unable to show him affection.

He sighed thoughtfully, tucking the letter back into his clothes, and glanced around him before continuing with his task. He didn’t tell Porthos the news, not yet.

 

\--

 

Porthos met d’Artagnan and the others in his office later that night to discuss plans for the next attack. Jean had been invited, and he could barely contain his pride, beaming and standing very tall.

“There’s a bottleneck there,” Athos pointed. “We could barricade it.”

“And there, and we can send the soldiers through that way and flank Condé’s men,” Aramis added, tapping the map.

D’Artagnan nodded, running a hand through his hair thoughtfully. “We have some extra men, but we’re still outnumbered, so I think barricades are a good idea. We can force them through smaller gaps, herd them like sheep to where we can attack.”

“And we’re almost done reinforcing the garrison again,” Porthos said.

“I wonder if Turenne’s men will help us,” d’Artagnan sighed. “I don’t know where they are- Mazarin holds all of those cards. If they come to our aid, it will be his doing, not ours.”

Aramis shrugged. “I trust him, as far as his loyalty to France goes.”

 

Athos had stopped listening, cocking his head with a bottle of wine half way to his lips. He could hear the steady _thud_ of arrows against a target from outside the window, as well as the low sounds of conversation. He gave a quick look back to the Musketeers around the table, and sidled over to look outside into the yard.

His suspicions were confirmed; Milady was being shown how to use a bow, Elodie standing close behind her and readjusting her aim before letting her loose the arrow. He smiled to himself. She had asked for help, after all.

He watched them for a few minutes, not wanting to disturb the lesson, and was surprised to see Milady making an effort to get along with Elodie, actually talking with her and taking her instruction well. He didn’t notice Porthos step up beside him until he spoke.

“She’s not as-“ Porthos made a grunting noise and a stabbing motion with his hand “-as before, is she.”

“No,” Athos agreed.

Porthos nodded. “You alright?”

“I think so.” He turned to Porthos and managed a wry smile. “Hard to tell.”

Porthos patted his shoulder and grinned. “At least she’s on our side now.”

Athos nodded, and Porthos left him to his thoughts for a moment.

 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan called. He went back to the table and listened to Constance explain that the route she usually took through the city had been blocked by debris and broken furniture, according to some of the deserters from Condé. That meant it would be more difficult for the Musketeers to get through and they would have to take a detour through smaller side streets.

“We’ll need to take care,” Aramis said, frowning. “They could easily block us in that way.”

“Here’s our route back to the garrison,” Porthos said, tracing a line across the map. “We get pushed back here, we lock ourselves up and get ready for another fight.”

“Then we’ll fight together,” Constance said firmly, looking at d’Artagnan. “We can hold against them. All for one, remember?”

D’Artagnan smiled. “All for one,” he repeated, and put out his hand.

Porthos, Aramis and Athos all placed theirs on his.

“You too, Jean,” Porthos said gruffly, jerking his head towards the group. “Come on.” Jean did so with a smile that was full of pride at being included.

D’Artagnan hesitated, looking around at the others, and then turned his head to Constance. “You as well.”

“I’m not a Musketeer,” Constance frowned.

“I know,” d’Artagnan replied. “But you’ve been doing the same job as us for months now. I can’t make you a Musketeer, you know that. But to me-“

“To all of us,” Athos interjected mildly, not bothering to check with the others.

“-you are one of us.” D’Artagnan gave Athos a grateful look, and Athos nodded shortly.

Constance put her hand into the middle, and with one voice, they finished it.

“And all for one.”

 

\---

 

CONDE’S CAMP

Before dawn, Condé called his men to wake up the soldiers. “We will attack them now, while they sleep,” he said. “Break through the gates once more. Swarm them. Attack anything, anyone that moves, and leave no survivors. No prisoners, this time. You let one escape already.” He scowled at them, the early hour and the loss of almost a quarter of his fighting force making him foul-tempered. “If I see anyone running, anyone else deserting, I will kill them myself. Do you understand? I will _not_ have traitors, or cowards, or fools fighting for me. I’ll run you through.” He drew his sword to emphasise his point.

“Now get out there. Take Paris, and you will have glory and riches with me. Fail, and I will make sure you all die.”

Hardly a rousing speech, but it was fear he needed now, not love. Loyalty was clearly in short supply with these men. He mounted his horse and led them to the city limits, a brutal, almost silent fight breaking out with the guards that left a pile of dead and dying, moaning in the pre-dawn murk. Soldiers silenced the dying with a quick knife thrust to the heart, not wanting to draw undue attention to themselves, and as one, like oil spilling across the dirt, they insinuated their way back into Paris, beginning a slaughter that was only stopped by several alert guards at their posts.

 

\---

 

GARRISON

The morning was grey and foggy, a chill dampness in the air that made the Musketeers and their allies shiver in the cold air. They emerged already hearing the sounds of battle, even though it was barely dawn, and shook themselves into wakefulness quickly and with apprehension.

Athos scowled as he joined them in the yard, an apple in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. “It’s five in the morning,” he grumbled. “Have they no decency?” He wolfed down his food like he was starving, and wiped his mouth.

“We need everyone,” d’Artagnan said, ordering people to wake the cadets and the Musketeers.

Aramis gave Athos a mild smile and said, “Go and fetch Milady.” Athos started to nod and turn away, but Aramis touched his arm and added pointedly, “ _and come straight back.”_ His eyes were merry and mischievous, and Athos sighed tolerantly.

“Very funny,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, and went off to his rooms wake her.

Aramis grinned to himself. He’d been waiting _years_ to get him back for that.

 

They assembled in the yard, the sounds of battle louder already. Porthos could hear cannon fire and screaming not far from the garrison, and was itching to get out there and help. Elodie had Marie-Cezette on her hip, the child trying desperately to wriggle free and pet the horses that were waiting for the Musketeers. Porthos saw, and seeing that he had a moment spare, climbed into the saddle and gestured for Elodie to hand her up. He placed her carefully in front of him and got his horse to walk slowly around the yard, the animal being very calm and sedate as if knowing what was happening. Marie-Cezette laughed delightedly, clapped her hands and proclaimed “HORSE,” to everyone they rode past.

 

With a grin, Porthos handed Marie-Cezette back to Elodie, leaning over to kiss them both. “Take care,” she said softly, and he nodded.

“Don’t I always? Love you.”

D’Artagnan finished his goodbyes to Constance, and Athos to Milady- which was an interesting task, them never having been in this situation before. They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, and then Athos nodded curtly. “Be safe.”

“And you,” she replied quietly, stepping back before he could say any more, unwilling to be caught in public being weak.

 

Aramis watched them all with a dull ache in his chest, glad for them but missing Anne so much that it hurt like a wound. But she said she would return soon; he had to look forward to that, and trust that they could work something out that could make them both happy.

 

Finally, Brujon was ready with his men, and they set out first to assist as many civilians as possible. Some of Condé’s deserters were with him, kitted out in their new cadet uniforms and all looking smart.

Next, Jean and the small group he had been given as a trial by fire left, on their way to dismantle barricades and engage in any small skirmishes they found on the way. He looked very proud, but Aramis despaired at his terrible posture as he rode past.

 

Musketeers, soldiers, and cadets filed out into the midst of the battle, each with their tasks, leaving the four of them behind to follow them out.  The rest of the cadets, the civilian fighters, and Elodie, Constance, and Milady, were to stay here and defend the garrison if needed until the Musketeers returned or were forced back. They all looked grim and determined, except Milady who looked faintly amused and slightly overdressed for the occasion, and had their weapons slung about them.

 

“Let’s go,” d’Artagnan said with a smile, and although they weren’t sure why, the others grinned back at him, suddenly eager and ready for the fight.

They rode out into the morning mist together, and the cadets left behind slammed the gates behind them.


	9. EPISODE NINE: "THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winding down now! Historical discrepancies are deliberate and in abundance here. I've just about got where I need to be now, though.  
> Thank you to everyone so far.

EPISODE NINE: THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN

 

 

PARIS

The battle was bloody and vicious; the Musketeers had been in the midst of it for hours now, feeling battered and bruised and bone-weary. The sun had risen sluggishly, peering through the fog reluctantly as though ashamed to look at what was happening in the streets. Porthos was ashamed, too. There was no honour in this; Condé’s men were inhuman in their tactics and relentless in their attacks, and just kept on slaughtering men in droves. Several more of his soldiers had quit, either fleeing or turning sides, but it seemed to d’Artagnan that it made no difference, the Musketeers and their allies feeling as though they were pushing against a wave that refused to break.

 

Aramis was flagging; he had sustained a wound in his side that was bleeding freely and draining his strength bit by bit. He didn’t think it was life-threatening, but it was painful and tiring and he needed to bind it. He just hadn’t had the chance.

They fought as hard as they could for as long as they could, watching soldiers fall beside them screaming and unable to stop for even a moment to help them. Athos had to keep blinking blood from his eyes, a shallow gash above his eyebrow from a stray shot bleeding profusely as head wounds tended to. He was nearing the end of his patience for this fight. They would have to fall back to the garrison and hope to defend it as best they could. He looked for d’Artagnan beside him, seeing him fighting with two swords and winning, though he looked as tired as Athos felt. He glanced towards Athos when he dispatched the soldiers, and nodded grimly.

“Back!” he yelled, gesturing for the men to follow him. “To the garrison, Musketeers!” Porthos looked about him wildly, making sure that there were enough of their soldiers to hold their own here, and then followed the others as they allowed themselves to be pushed back to their home.

He couldn’t see Jean anywhere, and hoped he was out of the worst of the fighting with his men- he would surely have no chance out in this place alone.

 

They slammed the gates shut behind them. Most of the units of Musketeers remained in the city to bolster the soldiers’ forces, along with the defectors from Condé’s army and the volunteer civilians. D’Artagnan hoped it would be enough. Where were the men Mazarin had promised?

“Doctor!” Porthos shouted, holding Aramis up as he fainted from blood loss suddenly. He slung his arm around Aramis’ shoulders, keeping him upright while Doctor Blanchard came running. “Please,” Porthos said, his stomach coiling painfully. “He was stabbed.”

Blanchard nodded and beckoned Porthos over to a makeshift table in one of the storerooms. “Put him on here.”

Porthos lifted Aramis up bodily and laid him on the table as carefully as he could, hovering over him anxiously until Blanchard shooed him away. “Go on, you’ll have plenty to do without getting in my way,” he said, shoving at Porthos’ arm.

“But-“

“He’ll be fine. Who are you, his wife?” Blanchard grumbled good-naturedly as he pushed. “Out with you.”

Porthos left and went to help the others re-erect the barricade.

“He alright?” Athos asked shortly, hauling planks towards the gate. Porthos nodded and Athos patted his shoulder on the way past.

Constance and Elodie were handing out fresh powder and ammunition to the Musketeers and their men, quiet and efficient. Porthos kissed Elodie as she passed him and she laughed at him while barely stopping. Marie-Cezette was safe inside again, though she was a little put out at being left so far from the action.

 

“Letters came,” Constance told d’Artagnan as she came over to greet him. “There’s one for Aramis, too.” D’Artagnan nodded and tucked them into his shirt before embracing Constance.

“I’ll give him it when he’s patched up.”

Constance nodded, and gave him a strange look as if she wanted to tell him something before seemingly deciding against it and continuing her rounds.

 

“Where’s Milady?” Athos asked, catching Elodie’s arm as she passed.

“Changing,” Elodie smiled, nodding her head towards Athos’ rooms. “She decided she didn’t want to ruin her dress.”

Athos shook his head with a small smile.

 

\---

 

Condé led the way through the streets in front of the cannons, the noise of them rolling over cobbles deafening and monotonous.

“Faster,” he snarled. He was bleeding from his shoulder, and from a long wound on his cheek, and he ignored both in favour of leading his men. They were weak, cowardly- they needed a strong example and he didn’t intend to run back home when he could still ride his horse.

He watched from the saddle as his soldiers fought desperately. They still had the numbers; the Paris soldiers were outmanned three to one, at least, and would not be able to prevail for much longer. He didn’t need much longer anyway; when he took the garrison, the morale would crumble, his most fearsome opponents would be dead, and he could crush the rest of the resistance underfoot.

 

“This way,” he ordered, swerving into the wide streets near the garrison. “Line them up.”

 

 _They can’t hold against us._ The thought gave him some satisfaction; he was becoming tired of the Musketeers’ resilience and their stubborn refusal to just die already. He wanted a better France, a France that didn’t rely on the whims of a Royal line who had no more qualifications to lead a country than he had to be a blacksmith. A whole family of fools and liars and treacherous idiots, as far as he saw it. His way would be better. Reform, a new France- a dawn of a new age, just waiting outside his grasp.

“Load!” he shouted in a tone that brooked no argument, and his men scrambled to obey.

 

\----

 

GARRISON

The fortifications were finished and everyone was in place. Even Aramis had managed to stagger back out into the fray, neatly stitched up and feeling a little better, much to Porthos’ relief. He took his musket and retreated to a vantage point near Constance on d’Artagnan’s insistence that he not injure himself further.

 

Milady appeared from the garrison, dressed in some of Athos’ clothes and looking remarkably stylish despite it. She had one of his leather doublets on, tightened around her with a belt, and some breeches that Athos presumed she had dug from his chest as he hadn’t worn them in years- soft grey leather with silver detailing on one leg. The boots were her own, knee-high and practical. Athos looked at her for a little too long, his jaw hanging open until Porthos leaned over and lifted his chin with one finger.

“Are you quite well?” she asked Athos on her way up to the balcony. “Oh, and your head is bleeding.”

Athos swiped his hand over his eyebrow and turned back to his post. Porthos chuckled beside him but said nothing. D’Artagnan shook his head and Athos couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or disapproval.

 

It didn’t matter, however- he had no time to wonder, as the cannons boomed and the garrison shook with the impact. The gates held, somehow, but at the next crash they splintered inwards and rained shards of sharp oak on the Musketeers. They ducked under the impact, bracing themselves behind their makeshift barriers, and waited for the hail of wood to fall before raising their guns to the gates.

Soldiers began streaming through, the garrison once more swarming with them, and Elodie’s archers let loose on them with efficient fury and silent accuracy. Men fell, one after the other, making a screaming, bleeding pile that the others had to climb over to get through.  

It was chaotic and confusing, gunpowder and smoke and blood everywhere, the whole world narrowed to the garrison and the soldiers and the desperate fight just to hold ground as Condé seemed to keep funnelling men through into the yard as if there was no end to his resources.

 

Cadets scurried between stations, refilling ammunition, delivering powder, and reloading guns where they could. They were barely visible amongst the smoke, wraith-like figures only recognisable by their hats and the low, careful way they moved. Athos fired and reloaded and fired, repeatedly and thoughtlessly, his hands trained well enough that his eye could keep watch on the rest of the yard. Porthos’ men were doing fine, d’Artagnan’s were already engaging with swords. Arrows continued to rain on their enemies in controlled bursts, accompanied by musket fire and the occasional report of Milady’s pistol when she felt her arms begin to ache too  much.

 

“There’s too many!” d’Artagnan yelled, after thirty minutes of intense, wordless battle. Aramis swore under his breath, watching Porthos and the others be driven from their cover and forced to draw their swords.

“Damn,” Aramis said, hesitating only briefly before dropping his musket. He drew his sword, stepped past Elodie and the others, and ran down into the yard, his wound agonising and sending spike after spike of pain shooting through him.

He gritted his teeth, did his best to ignore it, and went to fight with his friends, unwilling and unable to stand by in safety while they were in danger.

 

Athos turned wildly in circles, keeping the soldiers at bay as best he could and managing a quick, well aimed thrust occasionally. He was outmatched; he hated to admit it, but there were ten men against him, his friends occupied with their own enemies and unable to help. Grimly he fought on, surrender never even occurring to him, his sword a blur in the grey light. He was panting, harsh, coughing gasps. He was bleeding from his arm, feeling it hot and sticky under his shirt.

 _If I go down, I’ll do it on my feet,_ he thought, his face twisted into savage fury.

And then suddenly there was a warm weight at his back, a body pressed back against him, and he heard another sword clashing against steel.  He couldn’t spare the moment to glance behind him, but he could smell jasmine and knew it had to be Milady, back to back with him and holding off the men he couldn’t see. He heard her fire her pistol and then toss it away, her sword now her only weapon.

 

“You seemed to need the help,” she said over her shoulder to him, barely sounding breathless. Athos grunted.

“I was doing fine.”

“Next time,” she said, thrusting her sword into some poor man’s gut, “I’ll leave you to be skewered then, shall I? You could _try_ to say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Athos said with a small, amused smile.

“And another thing,” she said. “You need a new bed.”

“I like my bed,” he said stubbornly, blocking a blow from the man he was fighting.

“It’s tiny. If you expect me to sleep in your rooms, I need a real bed.”

“Is now really the time?”

“It’s as good a time as any.” Milady fell silent for a moment as she dispatched the soldier she was fighting. “I haven’t used a sword in years.”

“You seem to recall the basics,” Athos said dryly. He stabbed his enemy and turned to the right, Milady wheeling with him.

 

“You are such an old married couple,” Aramis called over from where he and Porthos were also fighting back to back.

“We _are_ married,” Athos shot back. “What’s your excuse?”

Aramis inclined his head. “Point made.”

 

“That was almost funny,” Milady said, and he was gratified to hear that _now_ she was breathless.

He grunted in reply and concentrated on fighting for a few minutes, his arms aching and his head ringing. His stomach was on fire; he’d been stabbed somewhere in the fray and had barely noticed, but now every movement was blindingly painful and he could feel blood running down his skin in steady pulses that worried him. He stayed on his feet by some miracle of will, gritting his teeth and dragging himself on. He could be injured later.

 

“I see Condé!” he heard d’Artagnan shout from somewhere behind him, but was unable to stop his own fight to assist. D’Artagnan sped past them all, his face a mask of grim determination. They watched as he lunged into close quarters with Condé, his sword a flashing blur of silver in the light as he parried and thrust and did his best to match the Prince.

“He’s done for,” Porthos panted heavily. “Condé is the devil himself on the field.”

“He’s fine,” Athos objected, watching with fierce pride and a healthy dose of concern as d’Artagnan pushed hard, driving Condé back several steps, trying to get within his guard and injure him.

He was sweating and shaking after ten minutes, most of the fighting stalling to watch them, Athos, Milady and the others grouping together behind d’Artagnan as though willing him on. Condé’s men jeered and shouted and urged their leader on as well, the fight seemingly forgotten for the moment.

 

Athos swayed, as though drunk, but was ignored in favour of the battle. D’Artagnan finally got a hit in on Condé, slashing at his shoulder and earning a soft hiss of pain from the Prince.

The Musketeers remained silent, willing d’Artagnan on. D’Artagnan hit again while Condé was surprised, driving his sword into his side as deep as he could. Condé staggered, going pale, and grabbed at the wound, blood gushing between his fingers.

 

And then it didn’t matter anymore. A horde of men- unfamiliar men, _Turenne’s_ men- came barrelling through the streets of Paris, driving Condé’s soldiers back as quickly as they had came in. Roars and shouts of “retreat, retreat!” echoed through the streets, Condé’s men in the garrison looking uncertainly at each other and backing off. Two came forward to grab Condé under his arms and haul him off before the Musketeers could apprehend him, beating a hasty retreat out of the garrison and presumably out of Paris. The Musketeers looked at each other, grinning, relieved and exhausted, and set off in the soldier’s wake to help Turenne’s men as best they could. 

 

All except Athos, who went to his knees, pale and bleeding and silent. He reached under his doublet and pulled his hand back covered in blood, staring at it uncomprehendingly for a long few moments before simply saying “oh,” in a faint voice. He stayed there, breathing shallowly and looking at his hand and wondering if he was dying after all. He felt like he might be.

“Athos?”

He looked up, his vision swimming, and realised that he had so much to say. So much that he had kept from her, that his own cowardice had prevented him from saying and doing. If he was going to die, he couldn’t leave those things unsaid. She didn’t deserve it; she never had deserved what he had done to her. He reached up to her with painfully slow, shaking fingertips, his face etched in agony, and he saw she was crying. _Why is she crying, what-_ he thought vaguely, and then forced himself to concentrate, his thoughts becoming harder to manage.

“Anne,” he said thickly, grabbing for her hand with blood-slick fingers. She took it and held it tightly, staring at him like he was a ghost.

“I didn’t,” he said, struggling, and she tried to shush him but he grunted impatiently. “I didn’t say. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for- for everything. You-“ he grimaced and pressed his other hand to his wound tightly. “You were so beautiful and you wanted _me_ and-I shouldn’t-I was a coward-“ he shuddered and groaned, taking in a deep breath. “I love you. I love you, and- I’m glad- I’m glad we had this.”

“Don’t you dare abandon me again, Athos.”

“I won’t,” Athos said, and blacked out.

 

\---

 

PARIS STREETS

Porthos was searching for Jean. He had found his men but they said Jean had fallen and then disappeared some hours ago, and Porthos was worried sick. He felt as though it were his responsibility; that Jean was his cadet and if he had been hurt, or worse-

He shook his head, scanning the piles of bodies as he walked through the streets of Paris. They were eerily silent now; other than the groans of the dying, peace had returned to the smoky, blood-streaked cobbles. Aramis was directing groups of cadets to the injured, getting them taken back to the garrison or to hospital for the really badly injured. His own wound throbbed but he carried on, knowing it wasn’t dangerous enough to stop him for a few more minutes.

 

“Turenne’s men have given chase,” d’Artagnan said, rushing up to Aramis breathlessly. “They’ll get him and he’ll be brought to justice.”

Aramis nodded. “Then Paris is safe for the Queen to return. I’ll write to her.”

“It can’t come soon enough,” d’Artagnan agreed. “Paris needs stability now, more than ever, and the young King is surely old enough now to be recognised officially as the King.”

“I imagine he is,” Aramis said, smiling gently and with some pride.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, gripping his shoulder. “You can’t.”

“I know.” Aramis shrugged and embraced his captain warmly. “You fought that Condé like you were possessed, d’Artagnan. I was impressed.”

D’Artagnan grinned at him with no arrogance. “I did, didn’t I? I’d have had him, as well.”

“You’d have downed him soon enough. Has anyone seen Athos?” Porthos agreed, returning to the others. “And I still can’t find Jean or Brujon.”

“Brujon is fine,” Aramis noted. “He’s taking wounded back to the garrison.”

“One less to worry about, then.”

“We should head back,” d’Artagnan decided, glancing around. “There’s a lot to do at home and nothing more we can do here. The soldiers will finish up.”

Porthos looked gloomy. “I’d have liked to find Jean.”

“He knows his way home, Porthos.”

 

\----

 

GARRISON

Constance was directing the injured to the makeshift tables set up among the rubble in the yard, Elodie hard at work already and Blanchard up to his elbows in blood. She glanced up as they came in, giving them all a quick smile, and then went right back to her job. She still had a pistol slung at her waist. Elodie’s bow was strung over her shoulder, her head down as she tended to as man with a bloody wound on his thigh. Blanchard looked harried but calm enough, working quickly to stitch and patch up as many men as he could. Several cadets were fetching water and bandages, and the whole scene was a bustle of activity and an efficiently run field hospital.

“Has Jean been brought in?” Porthos asked Constance, and she shook her head.

“You didn’t find him?”

“No.” Porthos frowned and went to kiss Elodie before going to pick up Marie-Cezette from the safety of the garrison where she had been watched by a civilian woman.

 

Aramis waited his turn for Blanchard, slightly apprehensive about being told off for doing more damage to his wound. While he waited, he wrote to the Queen; a short, well worded note that he hoped would give her all the information she required. He sealed it and sent it off with a cadet for delivery, telling the boy it was urgent.

 _I’ll see you again soon, my love,_ he thought as he watched the cadet ride out of the gates.

 

D’Artagnan didn’t see Athos. Frowning, he asked Constance, and she merely pointed to the office, her face carefully blank in a way that worried d’Artagnan immediately. “What is it?” he asked, already running towards the stairs. “Is he alright?”

He didn’t wait for her reply, pulling open the door to find Athos laid out on his desk, d’Artagnan’s parchment, ink and books strewn across the floor haphazardly. Milady was sat in the chair, her eyes fixed on Athos’ face- _pale, too pale,_ d’Artagnan thought with panic welling in his chest. She barely looked up as d’Artagnan entered.

 

“Is he alive?” he whispered, looking wildly at Milady. “He’s not-“

“He’s alive,” she replied with a brief, disinterested glance to d’Artagnan. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He didn’t say, he kept on fighting-“

“Will he make it?” he asked, appalled and terror-struck. Milady said nothing, and eventually, she turned her head to look at him properly. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, her breathing hitching in silent hiccups, and d’Artagnan was suddenly struck with the knowledge that she _did_ love him, that he wasn’t just a plaything or a tool to get what she wanted, and the shame of how he had behaved pierced him like a knife.

“I don’t know,” she said, barely above a whisper. D’Artagnan hesitated, and briefly touched her shoulder before leaving her to her thoughts.

\--

 

“It’s bad,” he said to Aramis and Porthos in a low voice. “Athos might-“

“Don’t you dare,” Porthos said warningly. “Not a word of that, you hear?”

Aramis nodded. “He’ll be fine. Athos is tough, remember?” But even he didn’t sound wholly convinced. D’Artagnan nodded miserably.

“Any news of Jean?”

Porthos shook his head. “No one’s seen him,” he said.

Aramis looked over Porthos’ shoulder suddenly, hearing hoofbeats. A wide grin spread over his face. “Are you sure about that?”

“It’s not funny,” Porthos said angrily. “He might be-“

“Might be what?” Jean said lightly, clambering down awkwardly from his horse and striding over to them. “My apologies for the slight delay.”

“Jean!” Porthos said, grabbing the poor boy and lifting him bodily into a crushing embrace. “I thought you were-“

“Afraid not,” Jean gasped out as Porthos returned him to Earth. “I was just unavoidably delayed after a particularly fierce battle. I rescued a lovely lady, you see, and she was _ever_ so grateful-“

“You were late because you were _fucking_ some girl?” Porthos roared, unsure whether he was furious or proud. “I gave you up for dead! I was ready to _mourn_ you!”

It seemed somewhat funnier now that Jean was fine, and Porthos couldn’t help laughing even as he cuffed Jean lightly over the ear. “You little bastard.”

Aramis patted Jean’s shoulder approvingly, and even d’Artagnan, worried as he was, managed a chuckle.

They sent Jean off to help Constance with the injured as punishment, and then sat at the table in silence, occasionally glancing up to the office door without acknowledging that they were.

 

\--

 

PARIS- SEVERAL DAYS LATER

“Letter from the Queen,” d’Artagnan called to Aramis, tossing him the letter. He had been given his office back, Athos having been moved to his own rooms. He had yet to regain consciousness for any considerable time; he kept surfacing and talking nonsense before passing out again. Blanchard was hopeful that he would make a good recovery, assuming that his wound didn’t reopen. Milady spent hours at his side, speaking little and eating less.

D’Artagnan hadn’t been able to scrub the bloodstain from his desk; it stayed there, a dark reminder of Athos’ fight for survival while he went about his business.

 

Aramis opened the letter eagerly.

 

_My dear Aramis_

_I have returned to Paris and would welcome your company at the palace; we have much to discuss, especially regarding your re-commission with the Musketeers. Please attend at your earliest convenience_

_Yours, Anne_

“She’s back!” he said joyfully to d’Artagnan, hugging him forcefully. “I have to-“

“Go on,” d’Artagnan grinned. “We’ll be fine here.” Aramis beamed at him and all but ran to get his horse, passing Constance on the way and kissing her cheek in happiness as they bumped into each other.

“I take it the Queen has returned?” Constance laughed as Aramis disappeared out of the door, shouting for Porthos.

“It would seem so,” d’Artagnan returned with a smile. He noticed Constance’s glance slipping towards the bloodstain, and grimaced as her face fell. “Any news of him?” he asked.

Constance shook her head. “He barely wakes and he speaks nothing sensible when he does,” she sighed. “We’re doing everything we can.”

“He’ll make it,” d’Artagnan said confidently- more confidently than he felt. “He’s strong.”

“He’ll have to be,” she shrugged, practical as ever despite her worry. “She needs him. Not that she’ll ever say so.”

D’Artagnan frowned, and glanced at Constance calculatingly. “I was thinking,” he said carefully, and Constance leaned in to hear his plan.

 

\--

 

LOUVRE

“I am glad to see you are well,” Anne said warmly, Aramis stood before and drinking her in. She looked good; fresh and calm and impeccably dressed as usual. Aramis flushed, glancing around at the servants and guards and bowing low to the Queen.

“Your Majesty,” he said, not knowing how to proceed.

“Leave us.”

They were left alone- blessedly, mercifully alone- and Aramis hesitated for a long moment before stepping forward.

“Anne,” he said softly, and she felt as though all of his love and his depth of feeling was in that one word. She leaned in to kiss him, delighting in the sensation; it had been too long, the distance between them feeling like oceans.

“Aramis,” she murmured when they drew back, smiling and reaching to touch his face gently. “You have done so much for us.”

“I love you,” he said simply, shrugging. “I cannot do otherwise.”

“And I you,” she said, and he kissed her hand with a smile. “But we have much to talk about. We should sit.” He followed her to her chair and sat near her, his hand reaching for hers, stroking his thumb over her creamy skin idly as she spoke.

“First,” she said with an air of happy authority that Aramis loved dearly. “I intend to make Cardinal Mazarin Minister in your place.” She must have caught the twitch of Aramis’ expression, because she shook her head fondly. “I do hope you aren’t still-?”

“Of course not,” Aramis said firmly. “I believe he is a good candidate- he is as loyal as they come, and without his help we would have been lost in that last battle.”

“He is also a good friend and advisor- but nothing more.”

Aramis nodded, squeezing her hand gently. “And I am to return to the Musketeers, then?”

“I hope you aren’t disappointed,” she said anxiously. “It isn’t a punishment. It was intended as a reward.”

“Believe me,” Aramis smiled, “It is a reward. I am not cut out for the desk-bound life, I’m afraid.”

“It also means you have more freedom,” she added. “To come and go as you please. To see me as you please.” She hesitated, and then went ahead. “There is another matter I have to discuss, before anything else,” she said. “And you may not wish to hear it.”

“What is it?”

“My son- the King. As you may know, he is old enough to be officially recognised as ruler now, and I intend to have him crowned as soon as we can arrange it.”

Aramis smiled.

“But- I know it has been difficult for you, to watch him grow and not allow yourself to get too close to him. I know you love him, Aramis, as much as any father could- but I must, _must_ keep my promise to my late husband. He must think- _know_ in his very soul- that the King was his father. Not you. France’s fate may rest entirely on him being of the Bourbon line.” She smiled, a pained, tight smile. “I cannot allow him to doubt it.”

Aramis swallowed thickly, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. He knew this, of course; had known from the beginning- but he had always held out a secret hope that it might end up being different one day. She was absolutely right. He had allowed himself to interfere too much,

to speak to the boy familiarly and without the respect his future king should have warranted. He nodded, sadly but without anger.

“I should have listened,” he said. “I just-“

“I know,” she said, and it was her turn to squeeze his hand. “You may visit whenever you wish; but-“

Aramis understood. “Of course.”

“I hope that you will visit me often, however,” she said with a hopeful smile, and Aramis couldn’t help but return it, kissing her hand.

“It will be my absolute pleasure,” he said meaningfully, and Anne blushed.

When she had recovered herself, she stood and handed him a letter. “This is the official commission for you,” she explained. “Though I doubt you would need to ask your Captain for permission, if I know him half as well as I presume to.” Aramis tucked it away safely, and rose to kiss her again, full of promise.

“I will come to visit you soon,” he said quietly into her ear, and she laughed.

“Make sure you wear the uniform,” she added wickedly before he left. “You do suit it.”

 

\--

 

GARRISON

“I need to speak to you all,” d’Artagnan greeted Aramis as he arrived back at the garrison.

“I have something to tell you all as well,” he shrugged, following d’Artagnan and Porthos into the office.

“What is it? It’s not Athos. Tell me he isn’t-“ Porthos said as soon as the door shut behind them.

“It’s not Athos,” d’Artagnan assured him. “It’s Constance.”

“Is she alright?” Aramis asked, suddenly worried.

“She’s fine. I just- I wanted to ask your opinion on something. I wanted ask Athos, too, but…”

“What is it?” Porthos asked, curious.

“I want to make Constance an honorary Musketeer. Elodie, too, perhaps, if you thought it was a good idea. Not officially; there’s no precedent to allow women to join the Musketeers and I can’t change that. I looked into it. But she’s done the job we do for months now. She fought like any cadet for you, Aramis, and at the garrison these past few days. Elodie, too. If she hadn’t taught the men how to use a bow, we’d have been hard pressed to keep the garrison.”

“If not officially, how do you mean?” Aramis asked, leaning against the wall.

D’Artagnan shrugged, sucking in a short breath. “I’m not sure. But what do you think- would it be too unorthodox?”

“Since when do we worry about that here,” Porthos laughed. “We’ve done nothing but break rules for years.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” Porthos nodded. “Elodie too, if you think she’s good enough.”

Aramis inclined his head. “I agree. And for what it’s worth, I think Athos would as well.”

 

D’Artagnan looked relieved. “Good. I’ll figure it out. Aramis, what did you want to say?”

Aramis said nothing, merely handing over his letter of commission silently and waiting for d’Artagnan to read it.

A slow grin spread over his face, glancing up joyfully to Aramis and handing the letter to Porthos.

“You’re coming back to us?” he asked, seemingly unable to believe his eyes.

Porthos grabbed Aramis and hugged him. “You knew?”

“I knew a few days ago.”

“You didn’t say.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

D’Artagnan grinned and opened the chest beside the desk, pulling out Aramis’ pauldron. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment and then handed it back. “About time you put this on again,” he said as Aramis fixed it onto his uniform.

“Her Majesty did indicate that she liked the uniform on me,” Aramis said with some satisfaction.

“I didn’t need to hear that,” Porthos groaned.

 

\---

 

Athos groaned, his voice barely audible. Everything was aching and painful. He swallowed, his throat feeling full of glass, and tried to open his eyes, feeling a hand squeezing his. Blearily, he managed to crack his eyes open, the light blinding him for a moment. He cried out in surprised pain and blinked hard, screwing up his face.

“Anne?” he asked, remembering vaguely that she was the last person he’d seen and recalling moments of wakefulness in which she was next to him. He coughed and repeated her name, frowning and trying to focus.

“I’m here,” she said quietly, wondering if he was going to rant and rave again or if this was really him.

“I- said I wouldn’t abandon you,” he said, finally finding her face with his gaze and smiling painfully through dry lips.

“That makes twice now,” Milady said. “Be careful or you’ll make a habit of it.”

“I intend to.” He groaned again. “My head hurts.”

“It’s not surprising. You’ve been barely conscious for days. You kept talking about a tree.”

He only vaguely recalled the dreams and nightmares that had troubled him. They seemed distant and as if through a fog, already fading from his memory.

 

“I want to sit up.”

“I don’t think that would be-“ but he was already struggling, and with an irritated sigh, she pulled up his pillows and helped him to sit up against them. “You’re going to hurt yourself even more, you fool,” she said. “Then you’ll die and let me have some rest.”

“Have you been here-“ Athos said, frowning at her.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she said airily, not answering his question. She averted her eyes and stood. “I should let the others know you’re awake.”

“Wait.” His hand groped for hers again, and he tugged on it until she came closer.

“What I said- when I was…”

She stiffened, her eyes hard and her expression unreadable. “I understand. The ravings of the dying. I won’t mention it.”

“No.” He shook his head emphatically, feeling dizzy with it. “No. I meant- I mean everything.” His eyes had lost the hazy fever-brightness of the last few times he had awoken, and they looked into hers guilelessly. “I love you.” He looked like a boy again; like the boy she had accidentally fallen for.

“Oh.” She paused, staring at him in something akin to wonder and completely unable to reply.

 _He meant it- all of it? He loves me. He really still loves me, even though he knows me._ She stood in silence for a moment and then nodded silently, turning and leaving the room.

 

Her feet found their way to Constance automatically, her mind preoccupied with thoughts she was just beginning to unravel.

 

“It’s Athos,” she said without preamble, and watched as Constance went pale.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s…awake,” she said slowly. “And more or less coherent.” She paused. “I know that you helped the Doctor to save him. Thank you. He… means…“ she stopped helplessly, feeling disgusted with herself both for feeling this and being unable to articulate it. She was supposed to be good at this; was supposed to make a living with clever words and charming eloquence, and here she was stuttering like a love-sick _girl_. She’d never even _been_ that kind of girl, not really.

 

“I’ll tell d’Artagnan,” Constance said, not wishing to cause Milady any further embarrassment. She paused and gave Milady a brief hug. “I’m glad for you.” Milady stood stiffly and shocked as Constance walked away.

 _God, she’s so perky,_ she thought in vague disdain, but she couldn’t feel particularly angry towards her. She thought of the crowd that was about to descend on Athos, and went to fetch her horse. She didn’t feel as though she belonged there among his friends, and she certainly didn’t want to be in the middle of the raucous sentimentality that was likely to surround him. Besides, she had something to do- something she had never thought would be an option before. Not for her.

Quietly, she slipped out of the garrison.

 

\--

 

Athos bore the affection of his friends with more than his usual tolerance, even managing a smile. Porthos attempted to crush him in an embrace that could have strangled a bear; Aramis shook his hand and clapped his shoulder hard enough that his teeth rattled, and d’Artagnan wept openly. Constance made him drink some water, slowly and carefully until he was frustrated, but he ignored his impatience, knowing that her care was her way of showing her gladness that he was alive. Even Elodie visited, Marie-Cezette in her arms and howling “Affos!” repeatedly at him with a brilliant smile while Elodie sighed and apologised for the loudness.

 

“I want to get up,” he almost whined at Blanchard when the doctor arrived. “I’ve been lying down for days.”

“You can,” he said after inspecting the wound, “but be _careful._ ” He glanced at Aramis meaningfully at the last comment, and Aramis flushed, knowing that he had made his own injury much more difficult to deal with by fighting the other day.

“Fine,” Athos grunted, and forced himself up, swaying and feeling sick almost immediately. Porthos held one side and d’Artagnan the other, and they helped him out into the yard and the fresh air with Aramis and Constance following.

He limped over to the bench and sat down carefully, his breathing already laboured. He looked up into the sky, narrowing his eyes against the sun and smiling a little. Eventually, he glanced back at his friends and said in surprised delight, “Aramis, your uniform.”

“I’m a Musketeer again,” Aramis said, and Athos held out his arm for Aramis to come closer, giving him a brief hug.

“Good,” he said. “It wasn’t the same without you.”

“It was quieter,” Porthos grunted with amusement.

 

“I think now is as good a time as any,” d’Artagnan said, looking at his friends with some pride. “I figured out what to do about our discussion earlier.” He disappeared into the office and returned with a parcel. Athos was utterly confused but the other two looked pleased as he placed the parcel on the table and unwrapped it.

“Constance, Elodie,” he said, and with one glance Athos understood.

 

“I can’t make you Musketeers,” he said with a little shame. “But by rights, you’ve earned your places here with us as much as any cadet ever did. So I have these for you. They’re your uniform; they make you part of the Musketeers in all but commission. If you want them, of course.” He held up two uniform pauldrons, both brown leather and finely worked. They were smaller than his; he’d managed to dig out a few old ones that he thought would be serviceable until he could commission some personalised ones for them.

“And Musketeers should earn a wage,” he went on. “I know you both already have official jobs here-Elodie, I plan to make you Master of Archery as well as the stable master, so I can get away with paying you more. Constance, your wage for running the garrison will go up.”

 

Elodie and Constance looked at each other, and then at d’Artagnan, and Constance felt tears welling that she fought back. She would not let herself down. She reached out and took the one he offered her, seeing Elodie beside her doing the same. She thought she ought to make a speech, say something, but all she had was “Did you all agree to this?”

“I didn’t, on account of being unconscious,” Athos shrugged. “But I would have.”

“Thank you, then,” Elodie said simply. “I am- I’m honoured. This is my family. All of you are; you’ve been so good to me and to Marie-Cezette and you didn’t even know me.” She stopped before her voice shook too much, and Constance nodded.

“Thank you,” she said as well, smiling secretively at d’Artagnan before she continued. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you lot to look after.”

 

“Where’s Jean?” Porthos asked, and then yelled his name. Jean came scurrying out of the barracks, half dressed and wide-eyed.

“What?”

“Do I ask what- or who- you’ve been doing?” Porthos grumbled, and Jean couldn’t resist a grin despite his breathless state.

“Not unless you want the details,” he replied, and Athos shook his head.

“I want you to be serious for a moment,” Porthos sighed. “The Captain wants you.”

Jean turned to d’Artagnan and bowed, the effect somewhat comedic due to his breeches being half-buttoned.

He did them up, straightened his shirt, and managed to look a little more respectable as d’Artagnan looked at him.

“Jean Lavaud,” he said after a pause. “I am pleased to offer you a place with the Musketeers, if you want it.” Without more talk, he held out a pauldron for Jean, black leather shining in the sun.

Jean stared at it, uncomprehending, for a few silent seconds before his face broke into a sunny grin and he bowed exuberantly before d’Artagnan again. He retrieved his pauldron, holding it to him like a baby, and stared around the others with shining eyes.

“You mean it?” he said, and Porthos nodded.

“You earned it. Go on. I think you have something to attend to, Musketeer.”

Jean bowed – again- and ran off with his shirt flapping in the breeze.

“That boy will be trouble,” Athos commented, not unkindly.

“He’s as bad as you,” d’Artagnan nodded to Aramis, and Aramis shrugged eloquently.

“I like to think he’s learned a lot from me.” He grinned, and added, “And with that, I have somewhere to be.”

“I’d say come straight back,” Athos said, leaning heavily against the table and wincing a little, “but I think you’ve earned it.”

“I may be some time,” Aramis said, swinging into his saddle. He trotted out of the yard with his head held high, leaving the others chuckling.

 

“I have some news, as well,” Constance announced suddenly after speaking in a low voice with Elodie.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked, his brow creasing. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Better than alright.”

She smiled, her face lighting up. “I’m pregnant, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan stared at her for a moment as if frozen while the others turned to him expectantly.

Finally, he managed to speak, his voice shaky. “Really?”

“Yes, you idiot,” she laughed.

“It’s mine?” As soon as he uttered it, he flushed bright red at how stupid it was.

“Well unless I’ve run off and married anyone else, d’Artagnan, _yes_ , it’s yours.”

Even Athos huffed out a laugh at that, leaning forward to clap his captain on the shoulder. “Congratulations,” he said, his smile genuine but tinged with a hint of sadness at the thought of his own failings as a father. He would write to Sylvie again as soon as he was able; her last letter to him had been almost three weeks ago, and she surely didn’t know what had been happening in Paris since then.

Porthos enveloped d’Artagnan in a rough hug and then Constance in a more gentle one, leaving her breathless and laughing.

“After so long?” d’Artagnan asked Constance, reaching for her.

She nodded and he held her to him, kissing her softly.

 

“Porthos, Elodie, would you-“ Athos asked, gesturing to himself. “I should probably rest.”

Taking the hint, they all said a final congratulations and helped Athos to his rooms, leaving the two of them alone.

 

“I can’t believe it,” d’Artagnan whispered.

“You’ll have to believe it sometime. You’re going to be a father.”

“I didn’t think it would happen.”

“I didn’t either. For a while, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to- with the war, and with everything. But I’m so happy.”

“You’ll have to rest,” he said anxiously. “Take light duties, not work too hard-“

“I’m pregnant, not dying,” Constance laughed, swatting him on the shoulder. “Elodie managed to live in a forest and work harder than I ever have when she was big as a barrel.”

“That’s true, but-“

“Oh, do hush,” she said, kissing him until he forgot all of his protestations and followed her eagerly to their rooms.


	10. EPISODE TEN: "GOD SAVE THE KING"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks- the last episode of "The Musketeers, Season 4". It's a happy little episode, nothing too terrible, I promise, just tying up some loose ends and making people hopefully happier than season 3 did.  
> I'm sorry it's late- I couldn't bear to let it go!
> 
> Thank you to shadow-in-the-shade for being my soundboard, my beta and my comfort when I was tearing my hair out at 3am over this fic. Thank you to every person who left kudos, who commented, who bookmarked or who read this fic, you have been the reason I didn't give up. You're all brilliant and I can't thank you enough.
> 
> Next up I'll be writing the sex scenes I DIDN'T write in this season! Just a bunch of explicit Milathos sexy times, fanfic of my own fanfic which is truly terrible. After that, well- we'll see if season 5 wants to happen ;)   
> Thank you again.

EPISODE TEN: GOD SAVE THE KING

 

 

GARRISON

“Marie-Cezette!” Elodie cried in exasperated fondness as she watched the child toddling across the yard as fast as her chubby legs would take her. Marie-Cezette, however, was much more interested in the hand-to-hand combat lesson her father was giving, determined to be involved.

“Porthos, head up,” Elodie shouted, pointing at the child, and Porthos stooped low to swing her onto his shoulders in the middle of teaching the cadets. There were more of them now, a steady stream since Paris had been stabilised, and the Musketeers had their work cut out to keep up. Even Jean had taken over teaching occasionally, along with Athos, Aramis, d’Artagnan and Elodie.

He lifted her above his head and swung around in a circle to make her laugh before handing her back to Elodie.

“She doesn’t stop,” he grinned, and Elodie groaned.

“I _know.”_

“It’s the coronation today,” Aramis said as he strode out of his rooms, looking resplendent and polished to within an inch of his life.

“I’d never have guessed,” Porthos said, eyeing his outfit with a sly smile. “You look like a fresh cadet, all hopeful and full of dreams.”

“Do shut up,” Aramis laughed, preening the feather in his hat delicately before returning it to his head. “Where is everyone?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Athos mumbled, squinting in the daylight as he emerged. “Where’s breakfast?”

“It was there,” Porthos pointed. “An hour ago.”

“You ate it _all?”_

“I’m a growing man.”

“You will be if you eat like a pig,” Athos smiled briefly, looking slightly mournfully at the empty table. “I’m hungry.”

“Well if you will stay in bed,” Aramis said with a wicked look in his eyes.

“Don’t start. I need wine, then. If there’s no food.”

“No, you don’t,” Milady said sharply, appearing behind him. “It’s nine in the _morning.”_

“I used to start much earlier,” Athos shrugged, uncorking a bottle and taking a drink with a grimace.

“You used to be a drunken wretch, you mean.”

“That too.”

The others rolled their eyes and ignored them; they were fast becoming used to the arguments.

 

Athos took one more defiant swallow and then dropped the bottle under her wrathful gaze.

She hadn’t told him yet where she’d been that day he had woken up; she had been searching since then for the right moment. Trouble was, she needed another opportunity to come to her aid, and she was waiting for one to arrive before she said anything. Athos was worried she was taking secret missions for the Queen, that she was killing people and not telling him. _She is an assassin, remember_ , his brain told him, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

 

Athos had dreamed again last night; but this time, he had managed to get to within three feet of the noose. He had been so close that in his dream he could smell her, could hear the creak of the rope under her weight, could see the terror shining in her eyes. He had awoken shaking and crying but oddly exhilarated in the knowledge that something vital was changing, something inside him was shifting and unfurling after years of misery. Milady had stroked his hair back from his face without comment until he calmed enough to sleep again.

She hadn’t said she loved him. It niggled at him; he thought he knew that she did still love him, but she had avoided all mentions of it other than to be slightly nicer than usual, though strangely distant. And she wouldn’t say where she’d been that day. But as for himself, he felt lighter, better than he had in years and less self-pitying, too. Only d’Artagnan seemed to still have reservations about Milady, and even he wasn’t actively cruel to her any more.

 

D’Artagnan and Constance rode back into the garrison; they’d been ordering supplies and had to get there early to get the best produce. Constance wore her pauldron with pride; d’Artagnan had finally commissioned her and Elodie’s. Elodie’s had leaves embossed into the brown leather- oak and elm and beech, her edging blue like the rest of the Musketeers. Constance had a small design of crossed pistols embossed into hers, black leather with the blue edging. She thought it looked beautiful, the leather soft and supple. She could see why Musketeers fought and died to wear them.

 

“Come _on,”_ Aramis groaned. “We have to set off. I don’t want to miss the coronation.”

“It’s not until three, Aramis.”

“We’re on duty.”

“Not until _three.”_

Aramis sat down heavily. Marie-Cezette toddled over to him. “Ahmis?”

“Yes, little one?”

“Want up.” She paused for a minute, screwing her face up. “Pease.”

Aramis picked her up and stood her on his knee with a smile. “She’s coming on well.”

“More words every day,” Elodie said with fond weariness.

“Ice,” she said, and Athos tossed Aramis an apple from a handful that he’d managed to dig out of hiding. Aramis gave it to Marie-Cezette whole, who sucked on it happily, surveying the yard as though she owned it.

 

“There’s a letter for you,” Constance called to Athos. “It arrived earlier, but you were-“ she paused. “In bed.”

Athos took it from her without saying anything, rolling his eyes and opening it. From Sylvie- she hadn’t heard much of the problems in Paris since the whole pamphlet incident, and thanked him for letting her know and for sending money as well. It was a relatively friendly letter; certainly better than the first few rather strained attempts at communication they had tried, anyway; and Athos shrugged and pocketed it when he was done.

“Anything interesting?” Milady asked, and he squinted at her curiously.

“Why? Are you jealous?”

She scoffed at him with a disgusted expression but didn’t answer.

“Here,” Athos said, handing her the paper. “You can read it, if you like.” She didn’t take it from him, hesitating for a long moment before shaking her head, her eyes fixed on his.

“I doubt she’s particularly interesting,” she sniffed, walking off haughtily. _He would let me read his letters._

_She trusts me enough not to need to read it._

\--

 

REIMS CATHEDRAL

“How much longer is thig going to go on?” Porthos muttered to Athos, not moving his head.

“Interminably,” Athos replied, barely moving his lips.

“Do you mind?” Aramis hissed. He was the only one actually enjoying this; the endless prayers and seemingly unending procession of priests and bishops and accessories and anointings barely registering to the others after a while. They had stood silently and still for the whole ceremony so far, but it was becoming hard. D’Artagnan was even managing to look like he was enjoying it, to Porthos’ envy. Aramis, however; he was closest to the new King and therefore to Anne, his gaze rapturous and open and proud all the while that the others were trying to just look awake.

The cathedral was beautiful; opulent and full of glorious, vivid colours streaming through the windows and onto the amassed people.

 

“I think that’s the final prayers,” Athos said almost inaudibly in a lull between speeches.

“We can hope.”

“This is your _King_ ,” Aramis said with a glance to Porthos. “In case you had somehow forgotten.”

“I am well aware of that fact,” Athos said.

Porthos grunted and d’Artagnan rolled his eyes but said nothing as the ceremony began to wind down.

“You can’t tell me you’re not bored,” Porthos whispered to Aramis. He didn’t dignify him with a reply. “Why does the King need all of this stuff anyway?”

“I could be in bed,” Athos said mournfully.

“I don’t want to know.”

 

Finally, it was done, the newly crowned King Louis presented to the crowds and the cry of “long live the King,” being taken up by the crowd, the Musketeers, included- and none more proudly than Aramis, of course. He noticed Mazarin there, wearing his new uniform, and was relieved rather than jealous to see him as Minister in his place. And his son-

 _No. He’s the King’s son, and the King himself._ Though it hurt to tell himself that, he had to get used to it. France depended on the fact.

 _God, please-_ he started, but he didn’t know how to finish the prayer, or who it was he was praying for, and so he stopped.

_Keep him safe and let him rule well._

 

He caught Anne’s eye and smiled at her brilliantly, pleased when she smiled back before catching herself and looking away. The King looked good- he looked almost a man in all his finery and not the boy Aramis still saw in his eyes and his face. With Mazarin as Minister, his mother to help him, and hopefully, Aramis to guide him when he could and keep him safe as a Musketeer, there was no reason he could not be a glorious King.

 

They mounted their horses for the King’s entrance into Paris, posting themselves strategically around the procession. Aramis managed to get himself a position close to Anne’s carriage and stole quick glances at her as they moved slowly back towards home.

 

Crowds lined the streets as they rode through the gates that faced the Abbey of St. Denis, cheering and occasionally managing to co-ordinate cries of “long live the King!” They waved flags and banners and sometimes merely strips of cloth, some of them throwing flowers in the path of the procession and waving frantically.

Athos was nervous; crowds could be dangerous and on a day like today, they had to be on the highest alert. He found himself checking everywhere he could to ensure no danger, and Porthos took his lead on the other side of the carriages- but all was well for once, whatever God there might be allowing them one day of peace from ambush and plot.

Still, Athos breathed a sigh of relief as the procession finally ended and his duty was done, the crowds dispersing.  Everything ached and he was itching for a drink and something to eat.

 _And to see her._ Milady had managed to avoid the coronation, having no official reason to be there and certainly no desire to stand in the stifling heat for hours. Athos envied her.

 

Aramis lingered long after the Musketeers should have gone, and Athos was losing patience with waiting for him.

“I’ll follow. Go on,” Aramis said eventually, and Athos rolled his eyes.

“You’ll be waiting for hours before you can see her,” he said shortly, and Aramis shrugged.

“Then I will wait.”

“As you wish,” Athos said, not unkindly, and nodded to him before climbing into his saddle and trotting back to join the others.

“We’re meeting him at the garrison,” he explained as they rode away.

 

 

\--

 

LOUVRE

“Your Majesty,” Aramis said, bowing low to hide his smile. Paying his respects to the new King was perhaps not a clever idea so soon, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Anne stood behind him, looking resplendent in gold and blue and watching Aramis carefully.

“Don’t, Aramis,” the King laughed. “I’ve known you long enough that you have no need to be on the floor like a servant.”

He stood, managing to look serious, and inclined his head respectfully. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I take it you won’t live at the Palace any longer?” he asked, and Aramis nodded.

“I shall return to the garrison, Your Majesty.”

The King nodded thoughtfully, glancing to his mother. “And this arrangement suits you?”

“If it pleases Your Majesty, yes,” Aramis admitted. “I believe His Eminence will be more than able to fill my position as your Minister.”

“I like Mazarin,” he said, but his expression was a little petulant and Aramis had to hide his smile once more, “But he can’t fight like you can. Who will teach me to fence?”

“I am sure you will have the best swordsmen in all of France at your disposal,” Aramis said, truthfully enough.

“But you are better.”

“In truth, Your Majesty, Athos is the best swordsman in the regiment,” Aramis said. “We could arrange for him to teach you, if you would like.”

“He doesn’t like me very much.”

“You are his King. He would die for you if you asked.”

“I know _that_ ,” Louis scoffed. “But he doesn’t like me. Would you teach me?”

Aramis looked over the King’s head to Anne, who was looking at him wide-eyed. “I don’t know if that is a good idea, Your Majesty,” he said hesitantly, but Louis frowned.

“Are you refusing me? I will make it an order if you are. I order you to teach me.”

“I-“ He looked at Anne again, and she blinked and lowered her eyes, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“I would be honoured, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent!” he said, smiling brilliantly. “I will be as good as any Musketeer, won’t I?”

“Of course.” Aramis felt his heart swell. He couldn’t be a father to the boy- but by God, he would teach him everything he knew about swordplay, and hopefully manage to instil some values in him along the way. And it was an excuse to be at the Palace regularly.

 

Anne caught his arm as he was leaving the Palace, and he turned to her with a gentle smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he would ask that.”

“He is fond of you,” she replied. “It was to be expected, perhaps. As King, he will learn he can have what he wants whenever he wishes.”

“He will be a fine King, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, with such a fine Musketeer to teach him,” Anne said with a touch of mischief that he hadn’t heard in her voice for too long. She traced the lines of his pauldron with a fingertip, and Aramis glanced around them to make sure no one was watching. The corridor was empty, almost eerily so, and he leaned in for a quick kiss, feeling daring. She returned it with fervour.

“Anne,” he said softly, “We should be careful-“ but she shook her head silently, looking into his eyes with an intensity he had seen only a few times from her.

She swept away down the corridor ahead of him, towards her private chambers, and Aramis stood in bemused silence for a few moments until she turned to him over her shoulder, looking so beautiful and exquisite that Aramis knew the image would be burned into his heart forever; her eyes shining, lips slightly parted, haloed in the golden light of the candles.

“Aramis?” she said, amused.

“Yes?”

“Must I order you to follow me?”

She did not have to, but Aramis rather enjoyed her ordering him to undress, later.

 

\--

 

GARRISON

“You should rest,” d’Artagnan fussed. Constance sighed and carried on moving boxes of vegetables from the cart.

“I’m pregnant, d’Artagnan, not incapable. Besides, I’ve just got back from collecting these. They have to be put away.”

“But surely- the baby-“

Elodie touched d’Artagnan on the shoulder lightly as she passed, reassuringly. He glanced up at her with a smile but his brow was still furrowed.

“Constance will be fine,” Elodie said quietly. “She’s barely showing yet; she will know when she needs to slow down, I promise.”

“And as Elodie is the only one here who has actually _been_ pregnant,” Constance grinned brightly, “I think we should listen to her, don’t you?”

D’Artagnan nodded, defeated and amused. He watched as Elodie followed Marie-Cezette over to the horses, picking her up before she could get under their huge hooves and be hurt while barely breaking stride. She handed Marie-Cezette to Porthos and he lifted her onto his shoulders, his face full of love and happiness.

“Do you think I’ll be a good father?” he asked.

“You’ll be a wonderful father.”

“Are you sure? There’s so much I don’t know.”

“And you think I do? It’s not like I’ve been popping out babies all this time, d’Artagnan.”

“It’s just- I wanted this for so long-“

“I know.” She dropped the last box and climbed down from the cart to kiss him tenderly, her arms looped around his neck. “We’ll do fine. We have a whole family to look after us, remember?”

When she pulled back, she glanced around. “Speaking of family, where on earth is Jean?”

“Where do you think?” Porthos laughed as he passed with Marie-Cezette screaming happily on his shoulders. “Where he always is when he’s not working.”

“That girl from the battle, still?” Constance asked.

“It would appear he has a new record,” d’Artagnan grinned. “Shall we?”

Porthos didn’t need to be asked twice. He turned towards the barracks.

“JEAN!”

There was a moment of silence broken only by Marie-Cezette echoing “Jaaahhhnnn!” at the top of her lungs. Everyone waited.

 

Jean barrelled out of his rooms, looking terrified, buttoning his doublet and simultaneously attempting to pull on one boot. He stopped dead six feet from Porthos, throwing his boot at the floor in mock irritation.

“When will you stop that?”

“When it stops being funny,” d’Artagnan said with a grin, remembering his own beginnings in the Musketeers.

Jean laughed; a startlingly bright, loud laugh that set Marie-Cezette giggling. Reluctantly, he picked up his discarded boot and pulled it on, wiping tears from his eyes.

“It needs to not be funny soon,” he warned with a smile. “Or my lady friend is going to complain I don’t satisfy her.”

“You can apologise on my behalf when you’ve finished moving those boxes to the storeroom,” Constance said, pointing to them.

“And I’ll pretend that you weren’t supposed to be on duty,” d’Artagnan said with a raised eyebrow. Jean looked sheepish.

“Thank you, Captain.” He got to work.

 

\--

 

Milady hadn’t been there when Athos had returned to the garrison; slightly concerned, he found himself something to eat and sat at the table with a bottle of wine, watching the cadets and Musketeers bustle around idly without really seeing them.

 _When did I stop drinking so much?_   His bottle was barely half empty after half an hour- unheard of in recent years. He hadn’t been making a conscious effort to slow down, but he was just too busy- with work, with Anne, with so many things that he still had to do. And he knew she didn’t like it; she would have him stop altogether, and perhaps- perhaps one day he would let her help him. He’d done it before, had just stopped altogether and screamed and sweated his way through withdrawals every time. Perhaps, this time-

He sighed and took another drink. Where was she? She’d been distant since he had recovered; often leaving without warning and returning at odd hours, never telling him where she was or what she was doing. He wondered and worried whether she was continuing her work for the Queen.

_Your wife is an assassin and is that any better than a cold blooded killer?_

It had to be, or he didn’t know if he could cope.

 

\---

 

“They’ve taken Condé!” d’Artagnan shouted from the balcony. “He’ll be given a trial and likely sent to prison for treason!” He waved the dispatch happily at Athos, who raised his bottle in salute.

“It’s over, then.”

“Thank God,” Aramis said as he rode back into the yard, looking sore and stiff and immensely pleased with himself. “I don’t think we could take another attack like that one.”

He gave the reins to Elodie and came over to sit with Athos.

 

“You look happy.”

“I’ve been to see Anne and the King,” Aramis sighed with a smile.

“And?”

“I’m going to teach him fencing.”

“Is that wise?”

“Well I did suggest you, but he doesn’t think you like him.”

Athos grunted, giving Aramis a half-smile. “I don’t have to like him to protect him.”

“I did say that.”

“Besides, it’s not that I don’t _like_ him,” Athos continued, frowning at his bottle. “I just don’t know him.”

Aramis patted him on the shoulder. “He’s the King. No one knows him.”

Athos inclined his head in agreement and took another swallow of wine.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Aramis said as Milady entered the garrison and made straight for Athos.

“You can stay,” Athos said, glancing at Aramis. “I’m not about to –“ he flushed hotly as he realised he was about to say _fuck her on the table_ and couldn’t quite meet her eye as she approached them. Aramis laughed and leaned back against the table, nodding to Milady.

 

“Where have you been?” Athos asked carefully, staring at his own hands.

“Why? I’m not a prisoner.” She was instantly on the defensive, irritated by Athos’ question.

“I know.”

Aramis left quietly to find Porthos and play with Marie-Cezette.

“Where would you like me to have been, Athos?” she asked with a trace of bitterness. “Helping the poor? Feeding orphans? Or just anywhere except actually doing my job?”

“Is that what you were doing, then?” he said. “Your job?”

“I’m sorry that I don’t live up to your moral high ground,” she scowled. “It’s what I’m good at-killing, just like you are.”

Athos took another drink, thinking about it. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known she was an assassin when they’d started this again. It hadn’t stopped him wanting her.

“But if that’s just too much for you,” she said, “If you want to take back your _damn_ ‘I love you’, then _please_ , let me know so I can show myself out with a little dignity.”

“Wait,” he said, groaning and closing his eyes briefly. He reached out to her, taking her arm gently and pulling her back to him. “Stop being so eager to run away.”

“I learned from the best,” she snapped.

“I –“ he paused, trying to articulate himself in as few words as possible. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t?” She looked at him suspiciously, her eyes narrowed like a cat.

“What you do,” he said, gesturing expansively. “What your job is. I don’t care. I won’t stop you.”

“You wouldn’t stop me being an assassin for the Crown?”

“No,” he said, and it felt like a massive effort to get the words out. “It’s not- not my decision.”

 

“My, haven’t you grown,” Milady said, conversationally but with a hard edge to her voice. “By the way, I quit.”

“What?”

“I resigned. I’m not employed by the Queen anymore. I made her promise-“ she frowned, looked slightly ashamed, and bit her lip. “I made her destroy everything they had on me. Made her promise that I would never be forced back into doing that again. Like Rochefort made me.”

“He made you-“

“It doesn’t matter,” she shook her head, smiling. “He’s dead, anyway.”

“So where _were_ you?” he asked in wonder.

“I was settling my affairs,” she said, not looking at him. “Moving out of that house I rented- I hadn’t been there in months anyway, why was I still paying for it?”

Her voice was light, cheerful; Athos could feel the silent question underneath it, and he nodded automatically, barely even thinking about it. “You can live with me. I’ll buy us a house, if you want. Whatever you like.”

She didn’t reply, carrying on. “I sold my furniture, sold whatever I didn’t need. And,” she smiled brilliantly, “I bought a bed.”

“A bed?”

“A big bed. It’s going in our rooms instead of that fetid, alcohol-soaked, louse-infested thing you call a bed.”

“Our rooms?”

“You’re rather slow, aren’t you? I’m staying here. At the garrison.”

Athos felt rather like he had been punched in the gut, but- if it was possible- in a good way. He frowned and looked up at her, saw the nervous edge creeping into her assured expression, saw her touching her choker lightly and fiddling with the sleeves of her dress while all the time avoiding his scrutiny.

“I’ll ask d’Artagnan if we can have bigger rooms,” he said finally, carefully, not wanting to make it sound too big of a move. “If you want.”

His heart was pounding, his head reeling with the information he was still struggling to take in. Before he realised what it was he saying, he blurted out, “You don’t have to wear that.”

“Wear what?”

“The choker.”

Her hand moved to it automatically again, and she looked as though she had been frozen, only her eyes moving, searching his in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“You have nothing to hide. I love you.” It seemed to Athos that once he had said it, it just kept spilling from his heart and from his lips like water, trying desperately to make up for the years of silence between them.

“It’s ugly.” _I’m ugly._

“You’re not.”

She flinched at his astute answer, not even sure if he had realised what he had done. He looked so damn earnest, his eyes wide and open, his forehead furrowed in that irritating way that _she_ couldn’t ever resist. She relented, allowing herself to say what she had been avoiding for so long, quickly, like ripping off a plaster.

“I love you, too.”

She blinked, surprised that she had actually said it. The last time, she had screamed it, desperate and afraid as he condemned her to death. She had sworn it would be the last time he wrung such dreadful emotion from her. And yet here she was, delighting secretly in his willingness to lay himself bare before her, to give himself to her all over again despite knowing everything she was and had done.

Athos looked like he might cry, his nostrils flaring and his grip on his bottle tightening until his knuckles were white.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” she said, almost pleased that three words could make him look so utterly shell-shocked.

“And don’t say anything,” she added, seeing him open his mouth. “You’ll only sound like a fool.”

She kissed him gently, and left him sat there staring at her; she wanted a bath and some privacy to think.

 

\--

 

LOUVRE-NEXT DAY

“You’re coming on splendidly, Your Majesty,” Aramis said, panting. He could barely conceal his pride- the King had almost beaten him, without Aramis going easy on him at all. The lesson had lasted two hours, at the King’s insistence; Aramis was sweating and tired, his chest heaving as he leaned on the wall to catch his breath for a moment. “You would make a fine Musketeer.”

King Louis smiled, pleased, and glanced back to his mother, who had been watching. “Did you hear that, Mother?” he said. “Aramis says I could be a Musketeer.”

“Your father was a fine swordsman, too,” Anne said with an approving nod. “It’s in your blood.” Aramis blinked and looked at her, but she betrayed nothing, the King puffing out his chest proudly.

Aramis had been trying to instil a code of honour in this lesson; hoping that it would rub off into his rule, somehow. It was the first lesson of many, he hoped, and it had not been as hard as he had feared. The boy- the _King­-_ was almost grown, but he had a lot still to learn, and Aramis enjoyed teaching him what he could. For his own part, Louis was eager to be taught, his arrogance tempered with genuine curiosity and love for the sport that Aramis found absolutely endearing. He remembered him as a child; small, silent often- he must have seen much and said little of it. But he had blossomed into a thoughtful, well-spoken young man, and one Aramis was sure would rule France well.

He loved him. More than he could imagine loving anything except Anne.

 _And what do I get for my love,_ he thought. _I can’t be his father and I can’t marry my woman._ There was a certain irony in the fact that he couldn’t have the one woman he wanted, when so many others threw themselves at him.

Still, the course of love never did run smooth, as they said- Aramis had more than many and he was grateful for it, and happy. Almost ridiculously happy, considering the circumstances. He grinned at Anne over the King’s head, and she smiled back despite herself, trying to keep her expression neutral and failing, too amused at his sunny expression.

“I think Aramis is tired,” she said, rising. “You’ve worn him out for the day.”

“I fear I must agree, Your Majesty,” Aramis said with a gallant bow. “I’m not as young as I once was, and you have the advantage on me.”

“Will you come back the day after tomorrow?”

“If Your Majesty requires it,” Aramis said cautiously, looking at Anne. But she nodded without hesitation, and the King smiled.

“Excellent!” With Aramis clearly dismissed, he bowed again, risking another sidelong smile at Anne and raising his eyebrows. _Later?_

She nodded, barely perceptibly, and he went away with a spring in his step despite the aching muscles.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough.

 

\--

 

GARRISON

D’Artagnan had been surprisingly accommodating when Athos had asked about taking up more space- and he had been very interested to hear that Milady no longer worked for the Queen.

“Do we call her Milady, or Anne?” he’d asked with a frown, and Athos didn’t know how to answer. To him, she would always be Anne- he couldn’t manage to separate the girl he had married from the woman he knew now- but what if that bothered her? Should he be calling her Milady? _Could_ he?

“I’ll ask,” he’d mumbled with a shrug, embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of it.

 

But last night- last night, he’d dreamed of that tree and that rope and his beautiful wife choking and he had reached out, straining, trying to scream and failing, and this time, he had managed to reach her. He had cut the rope with one swipe of his sword, everything in slow motion and the sound distorted like he was underwater, watching her fall to the grass gasping and coughing, clawing at the rope and freeing herself from it and looking up at him with wide, tear streaked eyes and he woke up crying silently, shuddering with sobs and not screaming for the first time in years, with Anne pushing his hair back from his face and stroking his arm soothingly as he clung to her.

 

 _Perhaps that’s it now,_ he thought, hardly daring to believe that he would be free of the nightmares finally, after so many years trapped in his head with them.

_Do I deserve it to be over?_

He wondered that frequently since his injury. Had he done enough, had he suffered enough to make up for what he had done, for the years he had wasted hating and drinking himself half to death; for the wrong he had done to his wife and to Sylvie, for the cruelty he had displayed and the cowardice he had not wanted to admit to? It seemed like he could never do enough to right the wrongs, and yet she loved him. She loved him, and she wanted to be with him, and he might be allowed to be happy for more than a fleeting moment with her.

 

He raised his head from his thoughts as she rode in through the gates, smiling at her almost shyly. He still found it hard to look into her eyes for too long; she was terrifying and dazzling in equal measures and he found himself tongue-tied and stupid before her.

 

 _God, he looks so like a boy,_ she thought in amusement, noting his fluffy, just-washed hair and the wide-eyed look he gave her from under it. If he hadn’t been in uniform, she would have taken him for much younger, and she shook her head fondly as she dismounted.

“Do you actually do anything while I’m gone, or do you just sit there and wait for me?”

“I was teaching the cadets this morning,” he said to defend himself.

“It’s the afternoon.”

“I had a bath.”

“The first of the year?” she made a show of sniffing him as she approached. “Oh, and you used soap. I am impressed.”

 

“Milady,” d’Artagnan called from over the balcony. “A word?”

She looked surprised and turned to Athos, but he had no idea what he wanted and shrugged.

Sedately, she walked up the steps and into the office, leaving Athos frowning in her wake.

 

“Milady-“ d’Artagnan said, awkwardly. “I know we haven’t really got on-“

“I know you don’t like me, d’Artagnan,” she said coolly. “I can assure you, I can live with that. I’m perfectly used to it.”

“Well,” he continued, flustered. “I wanted to know- since you’re not working for the Queen any more- would you be interested in working for us?”

She blinked once, owl-like, and stared at him. “For you?”

“With us,” d’Artagnan corrected, sensing a mistake. “With. Not for.”

“I don’t have to wear one of _those_ , do I?” she asked, looking in appalled horror at his pauldron.

“Not if you didn’t want to,” he shrugged. “You wouldn’t be a Musketeer anyway; more of a covert operations agent.”

“A spy.”

“Yes.”

“A spy for the Musketeers.”

“An agent in the field,” d’Artagnan amended. “Should we require one. A scout, or someone able to infiltrate the enemy lines- that sort of thing.”

Milady felt the corner of her mouth twitch into a smile. D’Artagnan. Asking her to work with him. It was almost funny.

 

“Do I have to call you Captain?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes and dropping her voice into a seductive purr on the last word.

“Please don’t,” he said, immediately and uncomfortably.

“What’s my wage?”

“You mean you’ll take the job?”

“I appear to be between jobs at the moment,” she said with a wry smile.

D’Artagnan grinned, relieved, and then paused. “I should apologise for how I treated you,” he said with his usual direct honesty.

“You should,” she agreed, and then put him out of his misery. “Thank you.”

“One more thing,” he asked, and she sighed.

“Yes?”

“What do we call you?”

“Milady,” she said, frowning in confusion. “Why?”

“Athos calls you Anne, and we didn’t know if you would prefer that, or-“

_They actually bothered to wonder what I wanted?_

“I suppose…either would suffice,” she said slowly. “They’re the same person, anyway,” she added, only coming to the realisation herself as she said it.

 

\--

 

Porthos was playing with Marie-Cezette, both of them absorbed in a game that wasn’t quite marbles but was certainly _like_ marbles. Elodie and Constance sat watching them idly, chatting while they had the chance.

“He’s so good with her,” Constance said.

“He’s the best father she could have had,” Elodie agreed, eyeing him proudly. “I don’t quite know how to tell him, but-“

She turned to Constance, one hand on her stomach pointedly, and Constance squealed in delight, quickly hushing as Elodie shook her head. “I don’t think I want him to know yet,” she said quietly, glancing back at where Porthos was tickling Marie-Cezette, his huge hands deceptively gentle. She was howling in laughter and trying to tickle him back to no avail, until Porthos relented and sat her in his lap so she could reach. Instead, she gave him a wicked giggle and pulled on his beard, hard.

“He’ll be happy, though,” Constance assured her over Porthos’ exaggerated howl of pain. “He loves Marie-Cezette.”

“I know he will,” Elodie smiled. “It’s not that. I don’t want to steal the moment from you and d’Artagnan. How are you feeling, anyway?”

“Sick. And tired,” Constance admitted. “But there’s no chance I’m letting d’Artagnan think I can’t do my job. I _can’t_ just sit around all day, I’ll go mad. He already fusses over me so much you’d think I was the first woman ever to give birth.” She laughed, and Elodie joined her.

“He’ll be like that long after the baby is here,” she said. “Porthos only knew me for a few days when I was pregnant, and he hovered around me when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

Constance groaned. “He’s like a puppy.”

“He loves you,” she said.

 

“And Porthos loves you,” Constance said, putting her hand on Elodie’s. “You should tell him. I don’t need to take up all the limelight. Besides, we can get through it together- God knows I need all the advice I can get.”

Elodie took in a steadying breath and went over to Porthos, Constance watching her from her seat. Porthos’ face lit up when Elodie came to sit with them, and she saw Elodie talking with him quietly for a moment, the realisation dawning over his expression almost comically.

“Another baby?” he said in delight, loud enough for half the garrison to overhear. “Really?” He jumped to his feet, Marie-Cezette in his arms. “You’re going to have a baby brother,” he said to her, and Elodie smiled tolerantly. “Or sister.”

“Or sister!” Porthos agreed exultantly, spinning Marie-Cezette until she laughed and then putting her on his shoulders so he could kiss Elodie.  He murmured something to her and Constance could see the adoration on his face as he kissed her again softly, unable to keep his grin suppressed.

 

Porthos was completely overwhelmed. Elodie, pregnant again! He could scarcely believe it- there had been a time, before Elodie, before Marie-Cezette, that he had wondered if he would ever be a father- and now, he was going to be one _twice_ , with the most beautiful woman in the world at his side. He was no-one, nothing special- but she thought he was, and that was good enough.

 

“What’s happened?” d’Artagnan asked, coming down from his office and kissing the top of her head.

“Elodie is pregnant,” she said, turning her face up to his with a smile. “This garrison is about to get a lot louder.”

D’Artagnan looked worried. “How will I keep everyone safe?”

“You’ve done a good job so far,” Constance said, kissing him. “We’ll be fine. We’re family, remember?” She was secretly rather moved that his first thought was for everyone’s safety and not the practicality of having two young babies in the garrison at once.

 

Porthos had handed Marie-Cezette to a very unimpressed looking Athos while he ran with Elodie to tell Aramis the news, seeing him riding into the yard, back from the lesson with the King.

 

Athos stared at Marie-Cezette and she stared back at him for a long, silent moment. Then she reached out, very slowly and deliberately, and tugged on Athos’ beard while staring him in the face.

Athos winced and said nothing, which was not what Marie-Cezette wanted _at all_ , so she did it again, harder. Athos grunted in pain which was much more satisfying, and Marie-Cezette laughed in satisfaction which made Athos give her a half-smile through watery eyes. Milady appeared at his side as if from nowhere.

“I could teach her to be an assassin,” she mused.

“No.”

“SASSIN,” Marie-Cezette bellowed happily, clapping.

“Don’t you dare,” Porthos said, panting as he came back and took Marie-Cezette from Athos. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Athos said, sounding decidedly uncertain that he meant it.

 

He turned to Milady as Porthos walked away. “Do you want….?”

“Children?” she said, looking horrified. “With _you?_ ”

“I was going to ask if you wanted something to eat,” Athos said, bewildered.

“Thank God. Don’t scare me like that.” She stopped, looking amused. “Besides, I have some news of my own. I’m working with the Musketeers now.”

“You’re a Musketeer?”

“Don’t insult me. I’m – what was it d’Artagnan said again- _covert operations._ ”

“You’re a spy.”

“But on the good, honourable, righteous side,” she said, affecting a patriotic look.

“D’Artagnan asked you?” Athos was pleased, choosing to ignore her sarcasm.

“That’s what he wanted to speak to me about.”

 

 _I bet he didn’t expect to be expanding the ‘family’ quite so interestingly as this,_ Athos thought. First Elodie, Jean, then the babies- and now Anne seemed to be part of the garrison too. Really part of it, not just an extension of his own place in the Musketeers. The Musketeers had undoubtedly saved his life, when he had first staggered through the gates; Treville had taken him in and allowed him to stay despite him being such a mess that to this day, he didn’t remember the first few months of his training. He had watched over the years as Treville did the same for others. He never turned away anyone who had promise or the will to better themselves. D’Artagnan looked to be doing the same, honouring Treville better than Athos ever managed to when he had been Captain, to his shame. But he hadn’t been cut out for it. He could barely drag himself out of bed, let alone lead men into battle. But d’Artagnan- he was full of fire and life, and he was _good_ for the Musketeers. Treville would have been proud to see him as Captain- the one good thing Athos had done while the job was his, handing it over to d’Artagnan.

 

Athos slept through that night without having the nightmare at all, despite the new bed.

 

\--

 

GARRISON- SEVERAL DAYS LATER

D’Artagnan watched the yard from the balcony-so many new cadets training hard, the sound of dulled blades singing against each other ringing in the still air, the gentle _thwack_ of arrows hitting their targets in Elodie’s training corner as a group of Musketeers laughed and Elodie made it a competition between them. Athos was watching the group who were fencing, his arms folded across his chest as he shouted instructions. Porthos was helping Brujon and Jean roll barrels of gunpowder into the storerooms, all of them laughing and trying to knock each other over. And Constance was talking to doctor Blanchard at the gates, securing a deal with him to help the garrison’s wounded whenever the need arose. The whole yard was industrious and crowded in a pleasantly comforting way.

 

He knew that there would be so much more danger to deal with, and very likely soon- this lull would not last forever, as much as he wanted it to. He would have to lead men to their deaths, would have to weigh up the advantages of sending Constance and Elodie- and yes, Milady- into situations that they might not come back from, regardless of his own feelings. He would have to make decisions he couldn’t fathom, fight harder than he’d ever thought possible, and possibly see his friends wounded or killed.  Men who were in this yard right now might never get home to their families, might fall because of an order he had given. He knew they would do it willingly, would fight to the death if he asked them. The responsibility was monumental, the fear so ingrained by now that he barely felt it, always a tiny _what if_ in the back of his mind that urged him to be more cautious than his instincts urged him to be. He was still the reckless boy who had charged into the garrison with a misplaced grudge, all those years ago- he just had to do what Athos had been telling him since then and lead with his head, not his heart.

He had thought, when he came to Paris, that all he wanted was to be a Musketeer. He would never have dreamed about being the Captain. He hoped his father would be proud of him and how far he’d come. He would have liked his father to meet Constance, and their child as well.

 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos called, and he glanced down, snapping out of his reverie, to see Athos, Aramis and Porthos gathered under the balcony, looking up at him like they had done to Treville so many times.

“Drink?” Athos asked when he had d’Artagnan’s attention, and with a grin, he joined them at the table. Athos poured them all wine, and d’Artagnan looked around at them all. Constance and Elodie wandered over to join them, followed by Milady with Jean flirting outrageously and trotting to keep up with her.

“She’s still married, Jean,” Athos reminded him when they arrived, and Jean shrugged merrily.

“Worth a try.”

 

D’Artagnan waited for silence before raising his glass. “To family.” The others echoed him, draining their glasses and thudding them back onto the table- even Milady, Athos noted- and then d’Artagnan extended his hand, looking around them all seriously.

“All for one.”

One by one, they reached out their hands over his, all except Milady who rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall.

“And one for all,” they said, their voices strong, so many more voices than d’Artagnan remembered from his first days in Paris. So many more members to his family than he could ever have hoped for.

Milady made a disgusted noise in her throat and sauntered off towards the archery range, hesitating only long enough to turn and give a slight nod of respect to d’Artagnan. He returned it with an amused smile, and then gave his attention back to the rest of his friends, Athos refilling glasses busily and Porthos making a disgusting joke to Aramis that had him choking back laughter under the mock-disapproving eye of Elodie.

 _This place is about to get a lot more chaotic,_ he thought- and it was an exciting, wonderful prospect.


End file.
